


ACES WILD

by AndiiV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Drama, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6787177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndiiV/pseuds/AndiiV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural AU. The year is 1882, the place is Yuma prison. Fergus MacLeod is awaiting trial and less than impressed with his new cellmate, the notorious outlaw Dean Winchester. Can they resolve their differences and form an escape plan, or is there a bigger agenda in play? What follows is deception, double dealing and deadly peril as the stakes increase along with the six shooters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Yuma Prison, 1882_

_Time’s like a train which stops for no man. It steams relentlessly forward, taking on passengers, prisoners and crow bait alongside water and fuel. Should a man be unfortunate or stupid enough to board the wrong locomotive, then God have mercy on his soul._

That’s if he possesses a soul, of course.

The man sometimes known as Fergus MacLeod swore as a fierce gust of wind blew sand into his face. He wiped a sleeve across his stinging eyes before risking a final look into the yard. There wasn’t much to see anymore, the sandstorm came out of nowhere a few minutes ago and was raging so hard visibility was down to a few feet. He had no trouble visualising what was out there though, the view had long ago burned itself into his memory. 

He conceded defeat and hooked an old blanket across the inadequate window. He knew from experience that when winter storms like this blasted sand into his living quarters it lingered for days. It found its way into nooks and crannies, bedding, clothing, even a man’s hair and the sensitive folds of his skin. Sand in the nether regions was something a man like MacLeod should never have to endure.

He wasn’t sure what time it was but estimated somewhere close to eight. The storm had obliterated the sinking sun’s rays, bringing dusk sooner than usual and the blanket across the window only added to the gloom. He eyed the candle on the floor beside his bunk, wondering if he should light it. He didn’t know when or where the next one might come from but then his gaze fell on the other bunk, unoccupied for two months and he instantly strode over and struck match to wick. 

The small, whitewashed stone room looked friendlier in the flickering yellow light but this wasn’t a place MacLeod would ever call home. This had been thrust on him, imposed against his will and he was sick to the back teeth of being here. 

He’d stood at the window too long. His lower back and left leg were aching and it would only get worse, disturbing his sleep and infecting his dreams. He lay gingerly on his bunk and pulled a book from under his pillow. It was a compendium of Edgar Allen Poe stories and McLeod was enjoying it immensely. Normally it could take his mind away from the nagging pain and tense, edgy restlessness he’d felt since learning that second bunk was about to be filled. Tonight though, this close to zero hour; no dice. 

He heard the prison bell toll eight times, heralding the official start of night time. It was muffled by the storm but his ears were so attuned now that it could wake him from the darkest depths of sleep. Over the past months he’d learned to hate that sound and everything it stood for. 

He put the book down with a sigh and blew out the candle. No sense wasting good light. It was unlikely he’d meet his new companion until the weather improved, since nobody was fool enough to walk even a few feet in a stinging, blinding sandstorm. He was certain the man wasn’t far away though, he’d heard the prison train arrive an hour ago and even though the railroad was a way off, well below the bluff, sound carried in the desert. 

MacLeod closed his eyes and tried to relax; aware this might be the last peace he’d get in a while. Who knew what he might be forced to endure after tonight? The man might snore, talk in his sleep or worse. He might be flatulent, slovenly and uncouth. These were all distinct probabilities and MacLeod fought down a stab of irritation, wishing the bastards running his life would just let him be. Why did they need to change things now? He hadn’t caused much mischief, he’d made solid bribes and laid down good money for the few luxuries he’d procured and he was Fergus bloody MacLeod, dammit. He was entitled to his privacy, his solitude and a few hours of peace between sunset and dawn. If this latest fuckwit threatened that in any way, he’d get his features rearranged in record time.

MacLeod’s heart was palpitating, he’d broken into a sweat and he pulled himself together with a stern reprimand regarding his own weakness. He rarely let emotion get the best of him, things ended disappointingly when he did and he realised he was looking at things the wrong way. He needed to treat the new arrival as an opportunity rather than a threat. The meagre scraps of information he’d gleaned about the man suggested that with delicate handling he might turn his fortunes around and take back control of his life. Until recently he’d been weak and incapacitated, but his strength was returning rapidly and Fergus MacLeod was almost back to his former self. Who in hell could resist that?

He only discovered he’d dozed off when approaching voices roused him. The room was fully dark now and very quiet, the storm long since passed. The voices stopped outside his door, light illuminated the blanket across the window and MacLeod pulled himself upright, listening to the familiar sound of key in lock. The door was thrown open to reveal a group of shadowy figures, one holding a lamp. A man was pushed into the room and he stumbled then fell to his knees as one of the guards outside spoke sternly.  
“Don’t get comfortable, prisoner. You need processing before you settle for the night.”

The door slammed shut and the key turned again. The light receded then everything was black as pitch. MacLeod listened intently but couldn’t hear a thing. It unnerved him how some stranger was right beside his bed but he couldn’t even hear him breathe. He knew he was there from the smell though. MacLeod wrinkled his nose at the harsh, sharp odour, thankful the processing procedure included bathing and clean garments because this man hadn’t washed in a long time. Spooked by the nature of his predicament he felt for the candle and lit it deftly. The man was kneeling in the exact place he’d fallen and MacLeod gave him a quick, derisory inspection as he jerked his chin at the vacant bunk. 

““That one’s yours. I recommend you stay off it until you’ve bathed.”

It was as though he hadn’t spoken. The newcomer ignored him completely as he got slowly to his feet. He was tall, well built and might have been young but it was difficult to gauge with grime all over his face. His clothes were filthy and spotted with blood, his hair so matted and greasy it was hard to know the colour. He hadn’t seen a razor in quite some time and it was impossible to tell where his hair ended and the straggly beard and moustache began. His eyes were dark in the candlelight and glinted with something which might have been intelligence, or danger but was just as likely a trick of the light. MacLeod hitched himself higher on his bunk. 

“It appears we’ve been forced together as bunk mates so how about we get acquainted? My name’s Fergus MacLeod.”

Most people knew the name and it usually elicited some kind of reaction. MacLeod was certain this fellow had heard it plenty of times, given his reputation and current location but there was no flicker of recognition. There was no response at all actually, the man dropped heavily onto the edge of his bunk and stared round the room. MacLeod wondered if he was some kind of half-wit but made another effort to engage him, struggling to keep his voice polite.

“And you are?”

The dark eyes lingered on him for the briefest second then resumed their scrutiny of the walls. MacLeod was getting irritated but managed to force out a laugh.

“Yuma prison does tend to scare the panties off newcomers. I understand if you don’t feel like talking.”

The man’s gaze swung back and MacLeod finally had his full attention. None of his words had hit their target and the man didn’t seem remotely offended or provoked by his barbs. On the contrary he seemed amused and his mouth pulled up into an insolent smirk.

“You’re talking enough for us both, buddy but don’t get nervous on my account.”

His voice was a rough and deep, the words spoken boldly with a suggestion of menace. They both knew he’d made an effective parry but MacLeod pasted an affable smile onto his face. 

“Since I’ve taken the trouble to introduce myself, would reciprocation be too much to hope for?”

The newcomer snorted his disdain. “A man like you should already have it.”

MacLeod leaned against the headboard of his bunk, feigning indifference but quietly reassured. His cellmate knew exactly who he was. He sighed dramatically.

“Not so long ago a prisoner with liquid assets might buy a guard’s co-operation, loosen his tongue and encourage him to turn a blind eye to certain proclivities. But Yuma’s no longer the party town it once was, I’m sorry to say. Six months ago we were unfortunate enough to get a new governor; an insignificant tick from the Confederate army who can’t accept his team lost and let it twist him into a bitter, sadistic cock sucker. The first thing he did was fire the entire staff and replace them with his own minions. They’re mostly army tossers, just like him and there’s no getting through to them.”

“How long you been here, MacLeod?”

The newcomer sounded interested but MacLeod wasn’t about to give up any personal information until he got something substantial in return.

“Long enough to know and it’s not just the guards getting tight lipped either. The punishments are preposterous and there’s all kinds of new rules to break. Once upon a time you’d get a few days in the dark cells for stepping out of line, now there’s whippings, beatings and if a prisoner tries to escape they shoot to kill.”

The man was smirking again. “Is that why you’re still here?”

MacLeod was offended and about to deliver a piece of his mind something out in the yard alerted his sixth sense. He got up to investigate and swore as pain needled down his back and leg. He limped to the door, pulled the blanket aside and peered out. Light was spilling from the door of the guardhouse, right across the exercise yard from his cell and a group of men were heading his way. He turned to his new companion.

“You’re about to get processed, mate. God only knows you could use that bath.”

The news had an effect on the man. He seemed decidedly edgy and MacLeod smiled thinly. “Are we frightened of a little soap and kerosene?”

The newcomer stood up and rummaged in the back of his pants. MacLeod watched with a grimace, nervous of what he was about to experience. To his surprise the man produced a half bottle of liquor and a fat roll of money.

“Where do I stash this?”

It was a demand rather than a question. MacLeod didn’t have time to ponder his audacity, how he’d managed to smuggle contraband into Yuma prison or how awful it might smell. He could hear footsteps getting close and he snatched the items from the man’s hands, stuffed them under his mattress then lay on top of the bunk, legs crossed and fingers laced behind his head.

Their owner was watching him, decidedly nonplussed. “You can help yourself to some hooch while I’m gone, but I know exactly how much money’s in that roll.”

MacLeod raised his eyebrows in mock offence. “Are you implying I’m a thief?”

The man shrugged. “Any other reason you’d be in Yuma prison?”

A key rattled and three armed guards came through the door. One was holding a lamp and MacLeod flinched as fierce light hit him right in the face. He knew them all. Two were old hands, tough, grizzled ex-soldiers who seldom spoke except to caution prisoners. The third, the lamp-bearer was a much younger man who’d arrived about a month ago. He was impossibly tall, lean as a whip and wore his hair long and shaggy. MacLeod knew him only as Campbell and from the way he slouched round the prison, it was clear he’d never set foot in the army. He was quiet and cagey to begin with but it hadn’t taken MacLeod long to strike up a dialogue.

With time, patience and persuasion, MacLeod had him running errands in exchange for cash. Campbell provided his meagre resources: candles, blankets, laudanum, specialised reading material and the odd quart of whisky. He also shared what scant information came into his possession. It was Campbell who’d spilled the beans on his new cellmate, an outlaw who’d led a notorious gang and currently had five thousand dollars on his head. He was wanted in a dozen states and territories for crimes which included armed robbery, gambling, cheating, rustling, murder and worse. Campbell either could not or would not provide the man’s identity.

MacLeod had been impressed by this description and as he watched his nameless cellmate staring contemptuously at the guards, he was acutely aware of the peril he might be in. The fellow might look like a bedraggled tramp but looks were deceiving and MacLeod had never been fooled by them. He was tough and smart enough to lead a gang of desperados, resourceful enough to evade capture for years and dangerous enough to be placed in the highest security cell Yuma Prison could muster. MacLeod knew with absolute certainty his bunkmate was going to be trouble. 

Campbell stepped closer to the grimy newcomer, held up the lamp and wrinkled his nose. 

“You smell worse than a sewer rat. You’re good and ready for that bath, aren’t you?”

It was only because MacLeod was looking directly at them that he saw what passed between them. The angle of the lamp prevented the other guards from noticing the prisoner give a slight nod and a wink. Campbell immediately grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the cell door. The prisoner swore and pushed him roughly away.

“Keep your hands off me, you goddamned moose.”

MacLeod chuckled, because the name suited the lanky guard perfectly. A moment later the other guards were all over the newcomer. They pinioned his arms and hauled him outside, still struggling and cursing.

Campbell was pulling the cell door closed when MacLeod called to him. 

“What’s his name?”

The guard frowned at him, puzzled. 

“Losing your touch, MacLeod?”

MacLeod sat up on his bunk, feeling the bottle of liquor press into his buttocks.

“They haven’t told you his name? Is information like that above your pay grade, sonny?”

Campbell thought about that for a second then reacted predictably. His face split into a broad grin.

“You just met Dean Winchester and he’s one evil son of a bitch. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean lay back in the bathtub with a grunt of relief. It felt like an age since he’d last experienced this luxury and the feeling of getting clean again was better than words could describe.

His head was stinging from the kerosene the guards poured over it, right before they’d ordered him to strip and removed his clothes for burning, but Dean was glad to see them go. He’d been living in those stinking garments for over a month and it had both pained and amused him to watch people back away on account of the smell. 

He wet his hair in the lukewarm water then washed it with tar soap, grimacing as his fingers came into contact with his raw scalp. It took three attempts before all the dust, sand and grime was gone and the water was blackening steadily. He was just about done when a guard banged on the door and ordered him to hurry up so he turned his attention to the rest of his body. The bruises and abrasions were too numerous to avoid so he just gritted his teeth, scrubbed himself down then did it over again for good measure. He dried off with a threadbare towel then reluctantly pulled on his prison uniform. It bore the white and pale grey stripes of the territorial prison, was old and well-worn but starchy and clean. Right now Dean considered that a victory. 

The shaving kit he’d been instructed to use was needed sharpening but he did his best with it, cropping his hair short with the scissors provided. It looked rough and uneven, he had no idea what was going on round the back but it wasn’t like anyone here actually gave a shit. He repeated the process on his straggly beard and moustache then got in close with the razor, startled by the many bruises it revealed. He fetched up with a couple days worth of growth but liked it that way. No sense coming into Yuma prison looking like a fresh-faced kid.

He felt almost human again once he was done and grinned as he recalled Fergus MacLeod’s reaction to his slovenly, stinking presence in the cell. MacLeod had looked about to puke at one point and Dean had almost laughed out loud.

“What the hell you smirking at, boy?”

Dean hadn’t heard the guard enter but reacted in character. He scowled at the man lounging in the doorway. 

“Nothing to concern an asshole like you.”

The man reddened then called outside.

“Go fetch the shackles, Walt. We got us a live one here.”

Dean didn’t bother resisting. He’d learned from the guards on the prison train, painfully, how putting up a fight only made things worse. He let them shackle his hands behind his back then let them punch him in the mouth. He was so used to abuse like this he barely noticed the pain anymore. When they’d finished he spat blood on the floor and sneered.

“Is that all you fuckers got?”

They looked ready to give him more when another guard hurried into the room and pulled up short, gaping at the scene.

“What the hell’s going on? Zachariah wants to see him and we ain’t even got the photographs done yet.”

Dean tried to get his bearings as they hauled him from the bathhouse to a clapboard office, but it was too dark to see much of anything. He was pushed into a chair beside a desk and the guards jawed behind him while a man with spectacles hunched over a typewriter and tapped his particulars onto a form. Documenting his many offences took an age and Dean was almost asleep when he was pulled upright and led to a corner of the room. A bulky camera sat on a tripod and he was blinded by a flash of light, then twice more for good measure. After that they were on the move again. They took him to a new part of the prison, everything was new to Dean, and fetched up outside an adobe building partially built into a sheer rock face. The words Governor B.C Zachariah were etched into the door. A guard knocked, went inside and was out again in a few seconds.

“Governor wants to see him alone.”

Dean was prodded inside and the door closed softly behind him. He found himself in an ostentatious room, lit by candles and oil lamps. The walls were painted terracotta, hung with colourful paintings and tapestries and Mexican rugs adorned the floor. It was furnished with a polished wooden desk, bookcases and cupboards. A leather Davenport sat in front of a fire which burned in a grate, though it wasn’t yet cold outside. The man seated behind the desk had his nose stuck in a burrito.

The savoury smell made Dean’s stomach growl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and whatever it was hadn’t been memorable. The Governor chomped his way through the burrito, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he went. Dean was practically drooling by the time he finally looked up.

“Dean Winchester. I’ve waited a long time to meet you again.”

Dean studied him, trying to remember the face. He came up empty. Zachariah was a stout, jowly man in his mid-fifties. He had a pale complexion, receding grey hair and a self-satisfied air about him. Right now he was wearing a tight smile.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Dean shrugged. “You look like any other rebel son of a bitch.”

“Watch your mouth, prisoner.” 

Zachariah got to his feet and came round the desk. He was roughly the same height as Dean but judging from his girth, way too fond of Mexican food. He grabbed a piece of paper and approached, brandished it like a trophy. 

“This states how you’re the property of the US Marshals in Tucson but while you reside in this facility you fall under my jurisdiction. If you dare speak like that again I’ll have you whipped in the yard.”

The smile which split his features made Dean’s skin crawl. 

“It’ll take some considerable time for those Marshals to make their case against you. In the meantime you belong to me.”

Dean had no idea why this man was so belligerent. He covered his confusion with a scowl.

“If you’ve got a beef with me, just come out and say it.”

Zachariah moved fast for such a portly specimen. He grabbed Dean’s shirt and pushed him against the wall. He yanked the garment open and buttons popped and scattered across the floor. The Governor gazed at his exposed torso for a few moments before smirking and jabbing his finger at an old scar on Dean’s left breast, an inch above his heart. 

“Think back on how you got that one, you cocksucking bastard.”

The penny finally dropped. Dean had taken that bullet in Nogales, right after the last bank robbery he’d ever committed. He was with his brother, just the two of them and while the raid went like a dream the aftermath was a nightmare from hell. They’d been inside the bank when a company of federal soldiers arrived and they’d walked out into a hail of bullets. Lead was flying, Dean was shot three times, bleeding heavily and firing randomly, just trying to stay alive. They’d gotten away by the skin of their teeth, both badly injured and it had taken the best part of three months to recover. The Pastor who’d taken them in had done more than sew them up and save their lives though. What he’d done was nothing short of miraculous.

Zachariah was watching him closely, nodding sagely. “You remember don’t you? I was commanding officer of that company and you shot my Captain through the head. He was the bravest man I ever knew, stood beside me through a dirty fucking war and all it took was one worthless outlaw to finish him.”

Dean was shaken by his words, wanted to explain how none of that had been deliberate but he couldn’t let his mask slip. He sneered at Zachariah. 

“Were you queer for him or something?”

A fist landed in his guts, right on top of his most recent gunshot wound. It was mostly healed now but still tender and the pain forced him to his knees, gasping. Zachariah’s self-righteous voice droned above him.

“I was sure I’d killed you. I thought I’d put a shell through your black heart but what I’ve got here now is downright heaven sent.”

A boot connected with Dean’s ribs, knocked him off balance and he fetched up face down on the floor. Fingers wound into his hair and jerked his head up with force enough to wrench his neck. 

“You’re going to do the hardest time possible, Winchester. By the time they hang you, you’ll be begging for death.”

Zachariah released him and called for the guards. A brief conversion was conducted then Dean was hauled to his feet and half walked, half dragged for what seemed like eternity. When his wrists were finally released from the shackles he was thrown onto something only slightly more comfortable than the floor. After that things got hazy. 

Dean couldn’t move. His guts were aching, his head spinning and he was trembling from a combination of cold and shock. The scheme he’d been pressured into had always carried risk but that had been comprehensively downplayed by the men from Chicago. Now it was clear those men had made a fundamental miscalculation. Or perhaps it was deliberate… Either way, unless Dean got word out of Yuma quickly, he might well die in this place. 

He was dimly aware of a light being struck. It revealed a familiar looking room and he slowly realised he was on his bunk in the high security cell. Fergus MacLeod was standing over him, looking baffled.

“What the bloody hell happened to you? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

He plucked something from his own bunk and spread a blanket over Dean.

“They didn’t get around to the bedroll, eh?”

When Dean didn’t respond he tutted loudly.

“You’re welcome. I suggest you try and drink some of this.”

He was holding the bottle Dean off-loaded earlier. “It tastes like horse piss but I suppose you’re used to that.”

Dean reached for the bottle, grunting as the action aggravated his latest injuries. He took a gulp and grimaced. MacLeod smiled.

“Not exactly top shelf, is it?”

That wasn’t the cause of Dean’s reaction though. The booze was rough but as MacLeod pointed out, he was used to it. However, since taking a bullet in the guts four months ago he had trouble consuming hard liquor and that pissed him off royally. Even though he’d regret it later, right now he needed its comfort more. He took another gulp, then another.

MacLeod was studying him intently. “You look like crap, mate. Processing can be rough but I’ve never seen anyone come out of it this badly. You must have really given those guards some backchat.”

Dean shrugged. “They asked for it.”

MacLeod perched on his bunk. “On the upside, at least that abominable smell is gone.”

Dean nodded. “Small mercies, huh?”

“You still like making things hard on yourself, don’t you Dean Winchester.”

Dean had known it was only a matter of time before MacLeod recognised him. Their relationship six years ago, brief and violent, wasn’t the kind of thing a man forgot in a hurry. He raised the bottle in salute.

“Here’s to old times.”


	3. Chapter 3

A shaft of sunlight directly in his eyes woke Fergus MacLeod from a light sleep. It was like this every bloody morning. The rising sun slanted through the cell door and woke him half an hour before the six o’clock bell heralded the start of a new prison day. He’d tried covering it with a blanket, but then the cell became hot and airless. He’d tried sleeping at the other end of the bed but the guards immediately put a stop to that, telling him it was against regulations. He’d tried everything

He got up cautiously, wincing from the pain in his back and leg which was always at its worst first thing in the morning. As was his habit now, he limped to the door and peered into the yard. It was too early to see anything of interest and the sole occupants were two guards, standing in a scant spot of shade and smoking cigarettes. Although it was early December the days were still blisteringly hot and even at this hour, just after dawn, temperatures were picking up fast.

A sound made MacLeod turn back into the cell, but it was only his new companion shifting on his bunk. Dean Winchester was a restless sleeper and he’d kept MacLeod awake for some considerable time last night with his tossing, turning and muttered steams of gibberish. He was currently sprawled on his back, clad in nothing but a pair of grey prison drawers. His blanket was an untidy heap on the floor. 

Shortly after Winchester’s return from processing last night the guard MacLeod now thought of as Moose had come by their cell. He’d demanded the prisoner remove his tunic then taken it away without explanation. MacLeod reckoned it was an excuse to make Winchester’s first night in Yuma as unpleasant as possible but his companion hadn’t seem much bothered by it. He’d soon shucked off his pants, complaining the cell was too hot and was content with just the blanket spread over him. 

They’d talked for perhaps half an hour after that, neither man giving anything away. Their conversation was stilted by animosity, tainted with suspicion and bad memories but Winchester had at least offered to share the booze. MacLeod had respectfully declined and Winchester didn’t drink much of it himself. He claimed it upset his stomach and MacLeod eyed the chamber pot nervously. He’d managed over three months in this cell without the need to defecate and didn’t relish the prospect of another man’s shit in his nostrils as he tried to sleep. Fortunately the pot remained unused and judging by his cellmate’s underfed appearance, there wasn’t much in his body worth passing anyway. 

MacLeod had striven to keep the conversation light, steering it away from topics which might prove dangerous. It was the only sensible way to proceed. Six years ago they’d parted company as mortal enemies, now they were forced to share a cramped cell for god knew how long. It wasn’t prudent to bring up old scores so early in the game. Winchester evidently felt the same way since he said nothing which could have been construed as contentious.

MacLeod honestly hadn’t recognised Dean Winchester when he’d been thrown into the cell, filthy and stinking. But when the Moose dropped his name MacLeod knew it immediately and a whole host of memories jumped up to greet him. Now he took the opportunity to study his old acquaintance as he slept. Winchester had always been too roguishly handsome for his own good and that much hadn’t changed. MacLeod wondered if he was still popular with the ladies, whether he still carried the swagger of a man who could have any female he desired. Resentment gripped him as more memories came forward. MacLeod hadn’t been used to competition in that area and Winchester, young, bold and dangerous had beaten him hands down. What pissed MacLeod off royally was the fact that he did it so damned effortlessly.

The years had been kind to him too. Winchester was still broad shouldered and muscular but he was also painfully thin. MacLeod could see every one of his ribs beneath the bruises covering them. Winchester hadn’t divulged much about his recent past but did admit to spending four tough weeks in a Bisbee lockup before boarding the prison train. His queasy guts made it difficult to digest greasy or spicy food and since that was pretty much all they gave him, he’d mostly gone hungry. That would most definitely not be a problem in Yuma prison. Portions were generous but also bland and stodgy, a combination of unskilled cooks and cheap ingredients.

MacLeod found his predicament amusing, assuming it was some kind of malaise which a tougher man would shrug aside. That was until he’d caught sight of the livid mark just below Winchester’s navel. Now he took the opportunity for a proper inspection and peered closely at his sleeping cellmate. As he’d suspected the mark was a bullet wound and fairly recent judging by its appearance. He counted four other bullet scars, old and white now but evidence of serious injury at various points in this man’s life. MacLeod knew all about the scar on Winchester’s left shoulder since he’d put it there himself. As he recalled the details of that showdown, clear as if it happened only yesterday, his hand moved reflexively to his left breast. 

His cellmate’s eyelids fluttered and he looked to be waking up. MacLeod retreated to his own bunk but continued his study. Winchester had seen some rough handling and his body was covered in cuts and bruises. Most would have come courtesy of the guards on the prison train, a rough, hostile bunch at the best of times. If they took a dislike to a prisoner then god help him. When MacLeod had known Winchester he’d possessed the kind of smart mouth which could reduce men to laughing stocks in front of their buddies. If he’d dished out lip like that on the train it was his own bloody fault he’d got hurt. 

Winchester opened his eyes and MacLeod watched him squint blearily round the cell. He remembered those eyes well, an intoxicating shade of green which had acted like beacons to the opposite sex. They were also sharp, expressive and they didn’t miss a damned thing. He was probably wondering exactly where he’d just woken up and MacLeod decided a small reminder was in order. 

“You’re in Yuma prison, mate. Sharing a cell with your old associate Fergus MacLeod.”

“That explains the smell of bullshit in here.” 

Winchester sat up with a grunt, saw MacLeod watching and snatched the blanket up from the floor. He covered himself hastily and MacLeod smirked.

“Don’t get coy on my account, sweetie. I just spent ten minutes watching you fart and snore on that bunk.”

Winchester smirked right back. “Did you like what you saw?”

“Not particularly. But it did make me wonder what a man might have done to get so bashed up.”

Winchester scowled. “None of your fucking business.” 

He stood up, pulled on his pants and glanced round the cell. “I need a piss.”

MacLeod nudged the chamber pot under his bunk with his heel. A precedent did not need to be set here. 

“Hold it ‘til after muster then use the latrines. I guarantee it’s a more satisfying experience.”

“When’s muster?”

Right on cue the prison bell began tolling and MacLeod got to his feet smartly. 

“Right about now, I’d say.”

They both turned as footsteps sounded outside the cell. Campbell’s shaggy head appeared at the door and Winchester moved closer without being ordered. The great oaf pushed a rolled up object through the bars and spoke in a stage whisper.

“Don’t make trouble, Dean. The guards have orders to watch you so don’t give them any reason to look. Okay?”

He was gone as fast as he’d appeared and Winchester unrolled the package. It was his prison tunic, the one he’d been wearing last night. MacLeod knew it from the number patch stitched over the left breast. Winchester was inmate 777 and that amused him greatly since he’d never met such a godless man in all his life. Last night the garment was hanging open with all the buttons missing. This morning they’d all been neatly sewn back on. MacLeod’s curiosity was properly piqued and he turned a few options over in his mind as he watched Winchester get dressed. 

“Damage to prison property carries a punishment.”

Winchester glanced across at him. “I didn’t damage it.”

“It doesn’t matter how it happened, mate. If you turn out for muster with no buttons you’ll get two days in the hole and no questions asked.” 

He cocked an eyebrow. “I imagine Campbell is well aware of that.”

Winchester shrugged. “So?”

“So why would he spend valuable time tailoring a prisoner’s shirt? And why’s he helping you?” 

Winchester snorted disparagingly. “You’re imagining things. You’ve been in this place too long.” 

He strode to the door and peered out into the yard. MacLeod opened his mouth to speak and his cellmate seemed to sense it. 

“Button it, MacLeod. I’ve heard enough of your horse shit.”

MacLeod smiled, because now he knew the look exchanged between guard and prisoner last night wasn’t his imagination. Winchester had smuggled booze and money in here with Campbell’s help and the guard was watching his back. That much at least was certain. The only thing he couldn’t fathom was why they’d risk bringing in disgustingly rank liquor which Winchester couldn’t drink without making a mess.

That was a puzzle for another time though. MacLeod turned his attention to his bunk, making it quickly and in accordance with precise specifications. Stringent prison regulations topped up by Confederate Army pedantry… things never used to be this bloody difficult.

He reclaimed his blanket from Winchester’s bunk and spread it neatly across his own. Winchester turned away from the door, frowning.

“That stuff I bought in last night…”

MacLeod was ready for this. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his blanket and spoke casually.

“Twenty lashes in the yard if they find it.”

Winchester’s expression didn’t change. “So where do I hide it?”

MacLeod straightened. “I’d assume a secure hidey hole in a high security cell would be a pretty rare commodity. I’d also assume rental on a space like that would be pretty damned high. That’s before you even factor in the additional cost of complete confidentiality.”

Winchester’s mouth tugged up into a sour grin. “How much, MacLeod?”

MacLeod narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider. “There must be at least a thousand in that roll. Ten per cent seems fair in my opinion.”

“Your opinion?” Winchester’s grin widened. “I’ll give you seventy five bucks and you can keep the hooch.”

“What makes you think I’d be interested in that bottle of piss?” 

“Shove it up your ass then. That way at least you’ll get to enjoy it.”

MacLeod knew there was close to seventeen hundred dollars in that stash because he’d counted it himself, but he wasn’t interested in personal gain. Whatever plan Winchester had for the money, he needed to be a part of it.

He pulled his bunk away from the wall and prised up the loose rock set flush into the floor beneath. The only things currently occupying the cavity below it were two candles and a bottle of laudanum. There was plenty of space for Winchester’s stuff so he motioned to his cellmate and Winchester tucked the items inside. MacLeod replaced the rock, brushed dirt into the seams to conceal them then pulled his bunk back into place. Winchester watched him impassively.

“Did you make that hole?”

“You bet I did. I scratched it out using my bare fingernails and it only took three bloody years. What do you think, genius?”

Winchester was about to retort but bit his tongue when he heard the door being unlocked. Two guards came into the cell. MacLeod recognised them as the ones who’d taken Winchester to processing last night and from the sneer on his cellmate’s face, he recognised them too. One of them jerked his thumb at MacLeod impatiently.

“What are you waiting for, MacLeod? Get to muster. Winchester, you stand for inspection.”

MacLeod got out of the cell but lingered in the doorway, curious. The same guard began barking orders at Winchester.

“Stand up straight, eyes front and wipe that look off your face unless you want to spend a day in the hole.”

MacLeod smiled at the scene. Old soldiers never could understand how outlaws and convicts were unlikely to be the drill following type. The second guard moved behind Winchester and scrutinized him closely.

“Your hair’s a goddamned mess, prisoner. Looks like you got dragged through a hayrick backwards.”

“Maybe you should give me a goddamn comb then.” 

MacLeod winced at the open contempt in Winchester’s voice, winced again as the guard’s hand whipped out and slapped him hard across the face.

“Don’t be giving me lip, boy. I don’t need back chat from crowbait like you. Get your worthless ass out of here.”

Winchester had sense enough to keep his mouth shut this time. He slouched out of the cell and the guard caught sight of MacLeod. 

“What you doing still there, MacLeod? Get to muster then get over to the hospital. Don’t take all day about it.”

MacLeod had forgotten his appointment with the prison doctor and his stomach clenched as he hustled into the yard. He joined the ranks of prisoners forming in long, straggling lines and a guard began the monotonous process of calling names and waiting for the prescribed response of “here, boss.”

MacLeod was near the end of the list so he had plenty of time to contemplate. He watched Winchester get pushed round the yard by the guards, herded towards the dispensary since there was more processing to complete. Winchester was currently lacking a bedroll, bathroom kit and sundry pieces of uniform and underwear. Anything else he might require, he certainly had the money to buy it.

The yard was hot and dusty with little in the way of shade. The stone block walls were high, smooth and a catwalk ran round the top of the enclosure. As was usual at muster, six guards were up there carrying rifles. 

Doors led out to other parts of the prison, constructed from impenetrable strap iron. The high security cell was the only one with a view of the yard since, by necessity, it was close to the guard house. The regular accommodation was built from adobe blocks or carved into the solid rock of the bluff. Not much of it saw the light of day and prisoners were housed six to a cell on narrow wooden bunks. MacLeod knew he was living in relative comfort compared to everyone else, but his living arrangements had just become intolerable. 

After muster would be breakfast then prisoners were dispatched to their assigned duties. There were a variety of jobs on the roster and they ranged from cooking, sewing and building through to cleaning, repairs and yard work. For those on punishment detail, there was the unpleasant task of breaking rocks in the scorching sun. Educated men were assigned clerical work and it had been MacLeod’s remit, since leaving the hospital, to catalogue books, pamphlets and papers in the library. He liked it there, it was on the side of the prison closest to the Colorado River and he could hear and smell the water. More importantly, it kept the place cool. He spent more time reading than working but nobody seemed to notice or care. MacLeod calculated that his knowledge, impressive to begin with, had doubled in the time he’d been here. 

Nothing he’d read, however, gave any clue how to escape from the sodding place. Yuma had become massively more secure since his last stay and now resembled a fortress. MacLeod’s previous incarceration had lasted exactly two weeks due to a happy marriage of corrupt staff and critical underfunding. He also had his gang terrorising the town of Yuma and plenty of money to buy what he needed. This time round he had nothing and time was running out. 

Once he was given a clean bill of health a trial date would be set. MacLeod wasn’t deluded enough to think he’d be found anything other than guilty and if he didn’t do something about his situation quickly, he’d be wearing a rope round his neck. 

His mind turned back to Dean Winchester. He had just as much to lose but MacLeod doubted he’d ever stand trial. Winchester had a plan, help on the inside and it was in Fergus MacLeod’s immediate interests to get in on his act. 

He smiled. That part shouldn’t be especially difficult, not with the benefit of hindsight and experience. He’d played Dean Winchester once and paid a heavy price. He most certainly wouldn’t be making that mistake again.


	4. Chapter 4

The second part of Dean’s processing took less time than he’d feared and so far he’d got through it relatively unscathed. He’d been allowed to use the toilet facilities before being taken to the depository, the guards barked insults at him all the way. They shoved him in the back when he didn’t move quickly enough, even though he had no idea where he was going. They saw no reason to tell him either. He’d overheard their buddies calling them Walt and Roy but preferred to think of them simply as a pair of cocksuckers. That seemed like a good fit. 

Inside the depository a sullen prisoner issued him bedding, wash kit and extra items of uniform then he was herded back to the exercise yard, laden with clothes and blankets. The place was deserted and the heat hit him like a punch in the face. The sun was unbearably bright after the dim coolness of the prison buildings and he staggered as it speared his eyes. A wave of nausea engulfed him, the yard began to spin and his legs lost their strength. He sank gracelessly to the packed dirt, trying not to vomit in front of the guards but was unsuccessful on that account. Since there was nothing in his stomach to bring up though, he simply dry retched for half a minute which wrenched his guts and burned his throat. He heard laughter above him and a boot in his ass sent him sprawling.

“Nobody said you could take a rest. Get up, Winchester.”

Dean struggled to his knees, tried to gather the items he’d dropped and another boot knocked him flat on his face. More laughter and he felt a rush of anger. He was aching to jump up and hit those fuckers in their stupid faces but right now he was having trouble even seeing straight. Maybe he’d save that pleasure for another time. 

“I said on your feet, prisoner.” 

The threat in Walt’s voice was clear. Dean got up awkwardly and collected his kit, braced to be knocked over again the whole time but it didn’t happen. Walt pulled him to the centre of the yard, right where it was hottest then made him stand there while he rattled off a long list of regulations and punishments. The sun beat on his head, rivulets of sweat ran down his back and his stomach growled with hunger, clenching up and sending spasms through his body. 

Dean tried to pay attention but he couldn’t stay focussed. His vision was blurring and the pile of clothes and blankets he was holding became unbearably heavy. He dropped it all on the floor as blackness consumed him but just as his legs were buckling, strong arms slid round his midriff and hauled him upright. A harsh voice rang out.

“What the hell are you doing? Can’t you see he’s dead on his feet?”

Dean thought he recognised the voice then realised he was hallucinating. The owner of that particular voice had no business anywhere near Yuma prison.

Roy responded in a sneering tone. “What’s it to you, Campbell? What do you care about this worthless piece of shit?”

Campbell’s voice went cold. “He missed dinner last night and he’s had no breakfast. How long can a man last without food in his belly? How long would you last, Roy? You stupid fucker.”

Roy sounded righteously angry now. “We ain’t here to wet nurse bastards like him, and you’ve got no business interfering.”

Dean heard the sound of boots approaching and they scuffed to an abrupt halt beside him. The voice which spoke now possessed a gruff authority which stopped the argument dead in its tracks. 

“Walt, Roy, you’re a disgrace to that uniform. Yuma is a humane institution and prisoners will be treated with respect unless they give us cause to do otherwise. I’m docking you both a day’s pay and if I hear of any more shit like you’ll be out on your asses. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Captain.” Walt and Roy mumbled in unison and neither sounded happy.

“Pick up Winchester’s stuff, put it in his cell then get out of my sight.”

The dizziness was receding. Dean opened his eyes and wiped stinging sweat out of them with his sleeve. Roy’s flushed face was in his direct line of vision and he looked mutinous. The captain spoke again, harsher this time. 

“Keep looking that way and I’ll fire you here and now. What’s it to be?”

The guards slouched away, grousing to each other and Dean blinked at the newcomer. He was middle aged, grizzled and could best be described as battle worn. His beard was shot through with grey but the eyes which met Dean’s were sharp and astute. A battered Union army cap sat atop his head and he bore stripes on the shoulder of his uniform.

The man behind Dean released his grip and came to stand beside him. Dean recoiled in shock when he saw who it was because in this nightmare, hallucination or wherever the hell he was, the guard called Campbell had the face of his brother, Sam. His heat addled brain struggled to comprehend what was in front of his eyes and he opened his mouth to blurt out a question. 

“Don’t try and talk.” The apparition spoke with Sam’s voice. “Let’s get him to the pump, Captain.”

They helped Dean across the yard and pushed him to his knees. He heard squeaking, grinding and then cool water was pouring over his head. He cupped his hands to catch some and gulped it down, unaware how thirsty he’d been until now. He felt a hand on his shoulder, Sam’s voice in his ear. 

“Drink slowly or you’ll bring it up.”

Dean squinted into his brother’s face, which betrayed no recognition or emotion. Now his mind was clearer he realised this couldn’t possibly be an apparition; what he couldn’t figure out was why the hell Sam was here at all. He was about to ask when a bell started ringing deep in his subconscious and he stayed silent. The captain was frowning at him. 

“How are you feeling, Winchester?”

“Okay, I guess.” He tried to get up and was consumed by another wave of nausea. 

“Scratch that. I think I’m about to puke.”

Sam helped him to his feet. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

He led Dean inside the prison and temperatures grew progressively cooler as they went along. They fetched up in the mess hall, a low room full of trestle tables and Sam pushed him onto a stool then hurried into the kitchen. The captain waited with him, assessing him openly but saying nothing. 

Dean’s head felt heavy and he propped it in his hands, listening to water drip from his hair and tormented by the smell of a breakfast already eaten. Hunger had become an unbearable pain and his stomach was clenched so tight he thought he might vomit again. Finally he heard footsteps approaching and raised his head. Sam placed a bowl, a beaker and a spoon in front of him.

“Porridge is all they had left. You eat as much as you need.”

Something in his tone made Dean glance up and Sam looked him right in the eye. “Try to gather your wits, okay?”

It took him a moment to recognise the warning, by which time Sam and the captain had walked off a few paces and Dean turned his attention to the food. The porridge was lumpy and lukewarm but there was butter, sugar and nutmeg in the mix, most likely Sam’s doing. Dean thought it might just be the best thing he’d ever tasted. He wolfed it down, confident there would be no digestive complications then drained the beaker of water in one draught. The captain called over.

“You want some more?”

Dean gawped at him, having never expected to get offered seconds. Sam grinned and took the receptacles back to the kitchen but once again the captain stayed put.

“When your belly’s full we’ll get you to the hospital, have them check you over for heatstroke.”

Dean nodded and the man continued. 

“I’m Captain Singer. I head up the guards here in Yuma and I consider myself a fair man. I won’t tolerate individuals being mistreated on account of being prisoners, but I won’t watch inmates make a mockery of us either. Do you understand?”

Dean nodded again. 

“The words you’re looking for are ‘yes sir’.”

Dean didn’t reply and the silence dragged out for half a minute before Singer sighed and shook his head.

“Got us another tough guy, huh? Think on this then, Winchester. Some of the guards have orders to make your life hell but that won’t happen on my watch so long as you behave. Anyone I find mistreating you will be dealt with severely.”

Dean pondered how much Singer could influence orders which came right from the top of the command chain and his conclusion wasn’t promising. Now his most pressing needs had been addressed, however, he could at least think properly again. Sam wasn’t a figment of his overheated imagination and Dean’s stomach twisted as he realised how close he’d come to blurting out something incriminating in the exercise yard. 

Of course Sam was here with him. Where else would he be except right by his side? When Dean had been cornered into this mission his brother had insisted he be part of it as well. Right now Dean was damned glad Sam had been his usual stubborn self, had gotten his way then come up with the inspired idea of disguising himself as a prison operative. Their immediate challenge now was finding a place where they could talk freely. Dean needed to get urgent word of Zachariah’s vendetta to the men in Chicago, tell them how things had gone south within twenty four hours of his arrival and how the warden was entirely capable of having him killed. 

Affairs with Fergus MacLeod, on the other hand, had gone exactly to plan. MacLeod knew he and Sam were connected and had been discreetly curious about the money in their cell. While he was currently hedging his bets, Dean could think of several ways to make him show his hand. 

Right on cue the man himself limped into the room, followed by an irritable looking guard. Dean hoped they’d be on their way but they came straight over to his table and MacLeod was pushed onto the stool opposite. The guard joined Captain Singer and Sam put another bowl of porridge in front of Dean.

“You want some, MacLeod?”

MacLeod shook his head and Sam shrugged then went over to his comrades. Dean was still hungry enough to be more interested in food than anything else and he was halfway through his bowl when he realised MacLeod hadn’t said a word. That was unusual bordering on miraculous and he glanced up. MacLeod’s face was sombre and he was staring at the table, eyes glassy and unfocussed. He looked to be miles away and Dean took a rare opportunity to study him.

MacLeod was stouter than he remembered. He’d always been fond of his food and it was beginning to show round his midriff. His hair was dark, well-groomed as ever and these days he was sporting a spruce-looking beard. Dean placed him in his mid-forties but in truth he had no idea of the man’s age. He remembered those hooded eyes well though. MacLeod had always reminded him of a hawk, a lone, predatory bird in a harsh terrain but right now it seemed his wings had been clipped. 

Dean took a mouthful of porridge and spoke round it, knowing it would irritate his companion. 

“You’re awful quiet, for once.”

It took MacLeod some time to rouse from his reverie. “I don’t like doctors.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you go to the hospital, MacLeod?”

“None of your bloody business. How’d you get a bullet in your guts, Winchester?”

Dean shrugged. “I got involved with the wrong man and he’s dead.” 

He paused, watching MacLeod closely. “Did you kill the man who gave you that limp?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But the question hit its mark and MacLeod’s left eye twitched slightly; the tell Dean had been looking for. 

“Sure you do. Word is someone shot you in the back, left you for dead then rode off with the bullion you’d just robbed.”

MacLeod’s expression darkened. “Let’s just say I’ve got affairs to settle.”

“From inside a cell?” Dean snorted. “The only thing you’ll be settling is your date with the hangman.”

MacLeod tensed and some of the colour left his face. “How is your situation any different, Winchester? When they get round to trying you, you’ll swing for sure.”

“Except I don’t plan on being around for that.”

MacLeod threw him a pitying look. “You’ll need more than money and a tame guard to get out of here, old chum. Didn’t I tell you things have changed?”

Dean shrugged. “A change is as good as a break.”

MacLeod scowled. “A change is as good as a rest, you pillock.”

Dean smiled. “You go ahead and rest, MacLeod. See how that works out.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sam Winchester leaned on the stock of his rifle and watched the prison doctor finish his examination. Dean was sitting on a bench, shoulders slumped, clad only in his drawers but with colour at least returning to his face. Sam struggled to keep his own expression neutral though because inside he was seething; shocked and angered by his brother’s condition. Dean had not only lost an alarming amount of weight, his entire body was covered in bruises, contusions and cuts, some of them infected looking. They’d parted company over six weeks ago and Sam could only wonder what had happened in the interim. By necessity, they’d been allowed no contact and so far there had been little opportunity to talk inside the prison.

He clearly remembered the event which had triggered this whole sorry mess. He, Dean and their half-brother Adam were in their adopted homestead of Purgatory, AZ; population 935 and counting. Purgatory was a rough, greedy town that badly needed taming, which is exactly why Dean had chosen it. They’d all been on the porch outside their jailhouse, drinking beer and going over the day’s events when the letter from Chicago arrived. 

Dean had read it twice but other than hinting it involved the outlaw Fergus MacLeod, he refused to speak about its contents. He was moody and irritable for days afterwards and it was a full week before he let Sam read it for himself. Sam’s immediate reaction was to bluntly state how only a madman would get involved in the half assed scheme laid out there. He also called bullshit on the veiled threats of retribution should Dean fail to get on board. He could tell from the look in his brother’s eyes, however that Dean hadn’t only saddled up, he was already half way to Yuma.

Even on paper the plan had seemed ridiculously optimistic. Dean would pose at the outlaw he’d once been, be publically arrested then sent to Yuma prison. Once there he’d gain the confidence of Fergus MacLeod and obtain the identities of men who’d helped him relieve a train of its cargo. The gold bullion in question belonged to The Department of the Treasury and several operatives had been killed in the robbery. The Treasury was keen to locate its property and bring the guilty parties to justice but MacLeod was their only lead. He was proving tight lipped and with his trial and probable hanging imminent, time was of the essence.

Of course Sam wouldn’t hear of letting his brother go in alone. Getting a guard’s job in the prison had been a breeze, since nobody wanted to work for the wages on offer and he’d been here four weeks already. He figured some advance cosying up to MacLeod wouldn’t go amiss and reported for duty the same day MacLeod was discharged from the hospital. He’d been in there for two months, recuperating from a serious injury but once in the swing of prison life, he’d regained strength and mobility rapidly. Some of the guards said it was downright unnatural how quickly he’d recovered…

Dean coughed pointedly and Sam realised the doctor was talking to him.

“What did you say?”

The man clucked his tongue impatiently. “I said watch the prisoner while I fetch my assistant. He’ll dress the wounds.”

He glanced at Dean impatiently. “You sure you don’t want to tell me how you received those injuries, Winchester?”

Dean shook his head and the doctor clucked again.

“He has a mild case of heatstroke so make sure he wears his cap outside. He can rest in his cell for today and I’ll prescribe light work and extra rations until he’s back to a normal weight. Captain Singer will be advised of this in writing. Good day.”

Dean waited for him to leave before offering Sam a wry smile.

“Guess I owe you for some shirt buttons.”

Sam crossed the room in two strides and embraced him fiercely. Only when Dean grunted with pain did he release his grip and stand back. Dean massaged his ribs and grimaced.

“I missed you too, Sammy.”

Sam watched him, frowning. ”What the hell happened to you? How’d you get all those bruises and why are you so damned skinny?”

Dean shrugged. “On account of some godawful food in Bisbee and…”

He hesitated and Sam threw him a knowing look. “And?”

“And maybe I said a few things.”

Sam blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Why can’t you ever keep your mouth shut, Dean? Walt and Roy hate you and even Zachariah’s found some axe to grind. What the hell did you say to him?”

Dean shifted on the bench and gazed at the floor. “You remember that job we pulled in Nogales?”

“How could I forget?” 

“Zachariah was commanding those soldiers and I shot his best buddy dead. He didn’t forget either and apparently he don’t forgive. You need to get word to those assholes in Chicago before he finds a way to have me killed.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. Little wonder the guards had been given special instructions regarding his brother. Some were decent men who wouldn’t purposely mistreat prisoners but there were plenty of rotten eggs, Walt and Roy for example, who’d enjoy following those orders to the letter.

“I’ll send a telegram tonight. Any word on MacLeod?”

“He doesn’t trust me, he sure as hell doesn’t like me but he’s eaten up with curiosity about that money and your involvement. At least that part’s going to plan.”

Sam shook his head, baffled by Dean’s attitude. “You don’t give a shit about the Treasury, the bullion or those suits in Chicago. Why the fuck are you risking your life for them?”

Dean’s expression was inscrutable. “I don’t recall having much choice in the matter.”

“Bullshit. You could have said no. They were bluffing about going public with your record and you knew it. Whatever beef you’ve got with MacLeod, that bastard’s gonna hang so take it as a gift and get out while you’re in one piece.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort then closed it as footsteps sounded outside the room. Sam stood back and grabbed his rifle as the door was shoved open with force enough to hit the wall. It slammed itself shut as a figure barrelled into the room and hurled itself at Dean, almost knocking him off the bench. Sam watched, stunned as he hugged Dean so hard his face turned white and he gasped for breath. Eventually he found the wherewithal to grasp the invader’s shoulders, haul him off and spin him round. He found himself staring into the face of Garth Fitzgerald IV and shook him like a rag doll. 

“What the fuck are you trying to do? Kill him?”

“I’m just happy to see him.” Garth was flushed, grinning and now it was Sam’s turn to get accosted. “I missed both of you so much.”

Sam extricated himself from the embrace with difficulty. For such a stringy guy, Garth had the strength of a goddamned bear. Dean was frowning at the overt display of affection.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Garth? You’re supposed to be acting deputy marshal of Purgatory.”

Garth’s expression turned sour. He jutted his chin out and glared at Dean. 

“It’s Fitz, goddamit. How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Fitz.”

“Fine. What the fuck are you doing here, Fitz?”

Garth shrugged. “Adam’s running things just fine. He didn’t want my help, wouldn’t listen to my advice so I bailed. I’m a doctor not a peace keeper.”

That made sense to Sam; Adam was one uptight bastard when it came to enforcing the law. Having never spent any time on the wrong side of it, unlike both his older brothers, things were still mostly black and white in his eyes. While he was clearly relishing the autonomy of his new position, the actual marshal of Purgatory, the one sitting on the bench in his drawers, didn’t seem impressed with the news.

“You gave yourself a promotion? Last I checked you were running a quack dentist shop out of Rosita’s Bordello.”

Garth scowled. “Didn’t stop me digging a bullet out of your guts, did it?”

Dean sighed. “I don’t care what you’re doing, just do it in Purgatory and quit fucking around inside a prison. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”

His tone was harsh and though Sam could detect the concern which lay below it, his words took some of the wind out of Garth’s sails.

“The same way Sam did. Asked for a job in the hospital, said I had experience and they nearly bit my hand off. “

“How long you been here?”

“Three days.”

“And what do you plan on doing, other than getting us all exposed?”

“I’ll look out for you.” Fitz crossed his arms and stared defiantly at Dean’s battered body. ”You need all the help you can get.”

He turned away, began pulling bandages from a drawer and Dean shook his head in frustration. Sam admired Garth’s audacity, his devout sense of loyalty but he had a big mouth, was way too trusting and was the sloppiest drunk in the territory. Dean was right to think his presence would hinder their operation as much as advance it, but eyes and ears inside the hospital might prove useful. As a civilian, Garth had more freedom than the guards who got one day off a week and were expected to live inside the prison walls. Garth, for example, could send a telegram without questions being asked. Garth could check the telegraph office every day for a reply…

Nobody was speaking and the atmosphere in the room was tense and awkward. Garth approached Dean cautiously and began applying salve to his infected cuts. Sam felt a twang of pity for him.

“Where are you staying, Fitz?”

“In town. I found a boarding house that ain’t full of bugs.”

“We need to get an urgent telegram to Chicago.”

“Write it down and I’ll send it from the station. I should be able to do that much without exposing us all.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at the blunt sarcasm. “Fergus MacLeod was here earlier. Did you see him?”

Garth began winding bandages around the deeper wounds. “Sure I did.”

“Why was he was here?”

“Getting checked over, but I did some fucking around while the Doctor was at breakfast and I got a look at his file. Guess I’ll be deliberating those facts on my way back to Purgatory.”

Dean stood up, scowling. “Dammit, Garth, don’t try and hold me to ransom. If you want an apology you can go fuck yourself. If you want to stay and help then spill the fucking beans.”

Garth pouted but the gleam in his eyes was victorious. “MacLeod took a bullet in the back three months ago. It missed his left kidney but it swelled up and caused all sorts of complications.”

Sam whistled softly as another puzzle piece slid into place. “That’s why he hasn’t been tried. They can’t pass a death sentence on an injured man.”

Garth nodded. “And now the waiting’s done. He got a clean bill of health an hour ago.”

Dean reached for his pants and pulled them on. “And I don’t have much time to get him to talk.”

He buttoned up, chewing on his lip the whole time. When he spoke again it was mostly to himself.

“I know how to play him this time round.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam sat in a corner of the guardhouse and pretended to read the latest set of procedural updates. It was a dull experience at the best of times and right now he was preoccupied with other matters. Like exactly why Captain Singer had given orders that Dean and Fergus MacLeod be brought to the guardhouse directly after dinner.

Singer was behind his desk, pen scratching across a sheet of paper as he wrote in a small, tight script. Another guard was leaning in the doorway, looking into the yard and smoking a cigar and the mood in the room was peaceful. The yard was similarly quiet, all the prisoners currently at their evening meal as the sun began its slow decline, lengthening the shadows in the packed dirt outside. It was still hot and Sam felt a bead of sweat run down his back, and soak into the fabric of his guard’s uniform. What wouldn’t he give to take a swim in the cool waters of the Colorado River right now? 

He was itching to ask Singer some questions but caution made him bite his tongue. He’d find out soon enough and he’d already shown too much interest in Dean. His actions in the exercise yard on that first day had not been forgotten, particularly by Walt and Roy who took every opportunity to ridicule his compassion. In their eyes, at least, it grossly undermined his suitability to act as a guard. The only way he could think of to keep them at arm’s length was to show he could be just as vicious them.

With Dean a gleeful collaborator, they’d staged a series of clashes in which prisoner would sneeringly insult guard and Sam would lash out with his fists. He never hit Dean with any force but both of them could pretend well enough to pull it off. Their daily skirmishes rapidly became something of a sport for Walt, Roy and their cohorts who took every opportunity to get them alone together. Sam had the feeling they enjoyed hearing Dean’s creative abuse as much as seeing him get hurt, but the deception was effective and it kept everybody looking the wrong way. Everyone, that was, except Fergus MacLeod.

MacLeod had been asking for all kinds of items to be smuggled into the high security cell and Sam was happy to accommodate him. He wanted the usual stuff; whisky, candles and laudanum, but took most pleasure from the receipt of writing materials. Sam had so far been unsuccessful in facilitating Dean’s request for pornography, but he was working on that. 

Captain Singer was talking and Sam realised, with a jolt, that he was being addressed.

“I’m sorry, Sir, would you repeat that?”

Singer gazed at him, the faded blue eyes as astute as ever. 

“You perplex me, Sam. Two weeks ago I was struck by your humanity, now I’m hearing chatter which suggests you’re on the same path as Walt and Roy.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak but the captain motioned him to keep quiet. 

“I can’t prove anything, it’s all hearsay and half-truths but I’d be disappointed if even a fraction of what I’m hearing is true.”

Sam frowned as Singer continued his lecture. “Dean Winchester is a cunning criminal with a smart mouth but he’s not half as clever as he thinks. As a guard it’s your duty to rise above his kind of horse shit and prove yourself the better man. Do I make myself clear?”

Sam nodded mutely. Time had effectively been called on their violently diverting sideshow. Part of him was relieved about that; he didn’t like hitting Dean unless he’d done something to properly deserve it, and he preferred it when his brother could hit back. The captain was still gazing at him and Sam squirmed under the scrutiny. He liked Singer and in a different life he would have been honoured to serve with a man of such stout principle, but he couldn’t forget his real purpose in Yuma. 

The sound of feet scuffing in the yard finally drew the captain’s attention away and Sam let out a quiet breath. Two guards prodded Dean and MacLeod into the office and ordered them to stand against the wall beside Singer’s desk. Dean was wearing an expression of disdain, as though the prison and everybody in it was way beneath his contempt and he stared at the guards insolently. MacLeod’s expression was inscrutable but he held his head high and his attitude was one of profound disrespect. Singer perched on the edge of his desk and looked them both over.

“You got something to say, Winchester?”

Dean smirked and one of the guards stepped forward threateningly. Singer waved him back.

“I’ve got news which’ll wipe that look off your face. You’ve just been given a clean bill of health and in light of that, Governor Zachariah has instructed you be withdrawn from the kitchen, effective immediately. Tomorrow morning you’ll join one of the rock breaking teams.”

Dean’s smirk widened. “It’s got to beat peeling yams.”

The Captain watched him impassively. “It’s back breaking work, Winchester. You won’t feel like smart remarks after a few days of it.”

Dean only shrugged but Sam’s stomach twisted. The change of occupation wasn’t exactly unexpected, since Zachariah was intent on making Dean’s life difficult, but he didn’t want to contemplate what else the governor had lined up for his least favourite prisoner.

Singer had his eye on MacLeod now. 

“I also have news for you, MacLeod. Earlier today we got a telegram from the Supreme Court. The circuit judge arrives in Yuma one month from now and your trial starts then. Defence counsel has been appointed.”

Sam watched MacLeod closely. His mask didn’t drop for a second though his left eye twitched a couple of times. He snorted scornfully.

“Why bother with an attorney? Everyone’s convinced I’m already guilty.”

Singer shrugged. “It’s standard procedure but you have the right to decline. Represent yourself if you think you can do better.”

Dean looked over and grinned. 

“Time’s up, MacLeod.”

MacLeod glared at him. “Yours is coming soon, Winchester. Make no mistake.”

Singer stood up and motioned to the guards. “Take them outside and keep them separate.”

The prisoners were hustled outside and Sam crossed to the door to watch. The yard was filling up with inmates, making the most of the recreational period before eight o’clock lockdown. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled towards a group of Mexicans, sitting in the dirt and dealing cards. He squatted down to join them. MacLeod walked stiffly towards his cell and vanished inside. He didn’t come out again. Singer’s voice drifted across the room.

“Keep an eye on MacLeod. News like that’s liable to make a man reckless.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Grateful for a chance to excuse himself from the guardhouse, he hefted his rifle and walked to the high security cell. MacLeod was propped on his bunk and scribbling in a notebook. 

“What are you writing, MacLeod?”

MacLeod didn’t look up. “None of your bloody business.”

Sam leaned against the door frame and watched him, unsure what to say next. 

He knew from late night conversations with Dean, conducted in whispers through the cell window, that he was making little progress in his mission. MacLeod was tight lipped about his last robbery and Dean could hardly ask him outright for the names of the men who’d shot and betrayed him. Subtler methods hadn’t worked either. Dean had lain awake for hours at night, listening to MacLeod sleep in the hope he’d mutter something vital in his dreams. Sam had provided him with the best quality whisky in the hope it might loosen his tongue but even drunk, MacLeod was a canny and calculating adversary. Two weeks in and they were no closer to getting the information they’d come for. 

Garth had been true to his word and telegraphed Chicago, informing them of Zachariah’s vendetta. He’d gotten an answer almost immediately with instructions to stick to the original plan as far as possible. If things were to really go sideways however, they’d be pulled out of Yuma immediately. There was an official letter on its way to Sam , corroborating their real identities and Dean’s eyes flashed dangerously at that piece of news. He didn’t take defeat lightly.

MacLeod threw a furtive look across the top of his book and Sam took the initiative.

“Need to get something off your chest?”

MacLeod lay the book aside. “How long have you and Winchester been pals?”

Sam kept his expression carefully neutral. “We’re not pals, just ask Walt and Roy.”

MacLeod eyed him shrewdly. “I heard about your little game but I also hear you whispering like schoolgirls outside this cell every damned night.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing that concerns you, MacLeod.”

”Really? Seventeen hundred dollars is a small fortune. A prisoner could never spend it all, even if he was in here for life. What’s it really for?”

Sam shook his head. “You ask too many questions.”

MacLeod shifted on the bunk and winced. Whatever the doctors might say, his kidney was still giving him trouble. He dropped his voice and Sam took a step forward into the cell. 

“Your buddy doesn’t like talking to me much, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you’re planning to break him out of here and if you don’t deal me in I’ll have words with Zachariah. If you’re lucky you’ll lose your job; if not you’ll experience Yuma from a whole new perspective.”

Sam shrugged. “I never figured you for a stool pigeon.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Sam pretended to consider but his heart rate was picking up. This was the opportunity he and Dean had been waiting for, the moment MacLeod initiated meaningful contact and gave them a bargaining chip.

“If we deal you in we’ll want something in return.”

“Of course you will. Unfortunately there’s not much I can offer you boys right now.”

Sam laughed. “Have you forgotten a train load of bullion? You can offer us a share in that.”

MacLeod sighed wearily. “Have you forgotten how my so-called colleagues shot me in the back and left me for dead? I have no sodding clue where that bullion went.”

“All we need are names, MacLeod. Tell us who did it and we’ll find them. That amount of gold won’t be easy to offload and they’ll be sitting on most of it.”

MacLeod was silent, apparently chewing it over but Sam was aware this whole scene was just another hand in a life size poker game. It was a while before he spoke again.

“You boys might fancy getting rich quick, but I’ve got affairs to settle. If you go after those treacherous bastards then I’m coming too.”

Sam stared, wrong footed by the statement. Actually breaking out of Yuma wasn’t something he’d ever considered and he had no authority or jurisdiction to do it. On top of that, the very idea of releasing a man as dangerous as Fergus MacLeod back into the wild made his skin crawl.

MacLeod sniggered. “What? You thought I’d be gullible enough to offer up those names then watch you both ride off into the sunset?” 

Sam was flustered now and tried, unsuccessfully, to cover it up.

“Once we’ve got the names we’ll all bust out and you can be on your way.”

MacLeod shook his head, an aggravating smirk on his face. 

“Don’t play me for a fool, sonny. You don’t get jack shit until we’re outside these walls and on the trail. You’ve got two days to think about it and in the meantime, get out of my sodding house.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean dragged himself from the bathhouse and across the yard to the mess hall. He was late for dinner on account of having fallen asleep in the tub, but the guard assigned to him was at least sympathetic to his state of utter exhaustion and didn’t give him too much of a hard time. 

Dean couldn’t remember ever having worked so hard in his life. He’d spent most of his life actively avoiding physical labour of any kind so nothing could have prepared him for the experience of attacking a rock wall, armed with nothing but a pickaxe. Captain Singer’s  
words of warning drifted back to him; ‘back breaking’ was a fair description of the work and Dean’s whole body had begun aching like hell only an hour into his first shift. Not long after that his hands blistered and his muscles screamed in protest each time he raised the axe for another strike. 

The rock face was thirty paces inside a rough-hewn cavern, produced by the sweat and toil of prison inmates. The face itself was lit by gas lamps but there was so much dust swirling round it was hard to see much of anything. It got into Dean’s eyes and made them stream; got into his throat and choked him but worst of all was the heat. He’d thrown off his prison tunic right away but his body still streamed with sweat, which mixed with the airborne dirt until he resembled a Navajo warrior. Two guards were stationed near the mouth of the chamber and in spite of the poor visibility they seemed to know when a man was slacking. They’d bark orders and threats until he picked up his pace again.

After an hour another squad of men took over and Dean’s gang was taken outside to a pile of large rocks. They were issued long handled hammers and instructed to break them into smaller pieces. While it was a relief to be away from the dry heat of the cavern and breathe clean air, the work was no easier. Now he had the sun to contend with as well, beating down relentlessly and making his skin itch as sweat and dust dried on it.

An hour later they were back in the cavern, dragging rocks from the work face to the hammering pile. The final hour before lunch was spent loading small pieces of the broken rock into barrows and wheeling them two hundred yards to the prison gates. Dean learned that traders and masons from Yuma purchased it by the ton and brought up carts to haul it away. He couldn’t see any tradesmen waiting outside today.

The loads were heavy and the guards would allow no respite. Some carried long, flexible birches and if they felt a prisoner wasn’t moving quickly enough they’d snap it across his back. The blows weren’t hard but they stung like a bitch and Dean felt the unwelcome bite several times. Throughout the long morning he was allowed to stop work only briefly in order to take in water. 

Lunch didn’t last nearly long enough, the food on his plate didn’t purge his ravenous appetite and in the afternoon the whole process repeated. Four gangs of men took turns at chipping, hammering, loading and barrowing in hour long shifts. When the five o’clock bell sounded the end of work, Dean was dead on his feet and craving the period before dinner where prisoners could rest in their cells. He soon discovered he was no longer entitled to this privilege. Most inmates bathed once a week, but the rock crews got so grimy they bathed every evening. There were only six tubs and twenty men needing to use them so they took it in turns. They went in alphabetically and Dean was right at the end of the list. He subsequently spent most of that precious hour slumped on a bench and waiting to be called. Every part of him ached and his mind was whirling; too tired to form coherent thought but simultaneously recoiling from the prospect of spending even one more day like this one. Time stretched before him like a desert and all he could focus on now was breaking Fergus MacLeod before his body got broken first.

When he’d returned to his cell for lockup yesterday, MacLeod was sprawled on his bunk and smiling smugly. That wasn’t the reaction Dean expected from a man who’d just got his trial date but MacLeod didn’t off an explanation for his good humour. Dean couldn’t be bothered pursuing it either; he didn’t like the fucker and every second spent in his company was becoming a chore. 

On the other hand playing the part of Dean Winchester, notorious outlaw, was becoming very agreeable. Despite nearly two years spent working as a town marshal, that part of Dean’s nature had never been entirely supressed and with each passing day it was actively gaining strength. He was beginning to enjoy the familiar feeling of satisfaction when another prisoner dropped his eyes in deference or changed direction in order to avoid his path. He even liked the fact there was an armed guard shadowing him most places he went. Men feared him and he kept telling himself that in his current predicament, a dangerous reputation was worth nurturing. 

Sam had come by his cell later that evening and they’d conducted their regular meeting, though his brother insisted they speak more quietly than usual. He’d explained how MacLeod had insinuated himself into their non-existent escape plan and Dean was far from surprised. He’d never thought MacLeod stupid enough to offer information without covering his ass, and had always suspected it might come down to this.

If escape was the only way to get MacLeod talking then Dean’s official mission was dead in the water. He had no problem with that. Sam would hate the infidelity, lecture him on how defying the men in Chicago would put him right back on their wanted list, but Dean didn’t give a shit. As an outlaw he’d successfully avoided the Pinkerton Agency for years and he’d only accepted their assignment as a legitimate way to get close to MacLeod. 

The only mission Dean cared about was his own. He had his own agenda and a highly personal score to settle. If accomplishing that meant coercing MacLeod into singing the right tune, he’d do it by any means necessary. For the moment though, all he needed to do was keep the limey bastard on the hook while he came up with a real breakout plan. 

“Pick your heels up, Winchester or you’ll miss dinner altogether.”

Dean tried to move faster, his body protesting every step. The mess hall was noisy with conversation, the clatter of cutlery and a lot of eyes watched as he came in. In spite of his fatigue Dean squared his shoulders and put some swagger into his stride. He had to keep up appearances and didn’t want anybody thinking a day’s hard labour almost had him beat. 

He was still being allocated extra portions at mealtimes and now he was thankful for it. For two weeks he’d struggled to clear his plate but today he was ready to eat a horse. He looked for somewhere to sit and cursed as he realised the only empty place was beside MacLeod. He hesitated, hoping he’d missed a seat and a guard prodded him and told him to get moving.

MacLeod’s plate was clear and he sat with his head bowed, deep in thought as Dean approached and banged his bowl down. MacLeod started then looked up, scowling as Dean flopped onto a stool and dug into his food, not even acknowledging his presence. He could feel MacLeod’s eyes on him though and waited for the inevitable conversation to pick up.

“When are we going to do it?” MacLeod’s voice was low and close. It made Dean bristle.

“Do what?”

MacLeod spoke right into his ear. “I’m part of your crew now so how about you start spilling the beans?”

Dean jerked his head away. “Shut your mouth, MacLeod or I’ll shut it for you. I’m not discussing anything in a goddamned mess hall.”

MacLeod smirked. “Tough day at the office, eh? A man like you just isn’t built for work like that.”

Dean ignored him and carried on eating. The fact of the matter was that he had no clear idea how to break out of Yuma prison. Even with Sam and Garth around to help, the place was locked up like a fortress and heavily guarded day and night. Half an hour later, back in his cell, he was no closer to an answer. Too exhausted to think straight, he threw himself onto his bunk and closed his eyes, listening to MacLeod retrieve a bottle of whisky from his hidey hole. Dean desperately needed to sleep but that wasn’t going to be possible for a while. MacLeod wanted to talk and it didn’t take him long to start yapping.

“I assume this is private enough for you, so how about you tell me what you’ve got planned. Your Moose hasn’t been exactly forthcoming.”

Dean opened his eyes with a laboured sigh. “There’s nothing planned and I’m too tired to think. Now shut the fuck up.”

MacLeod took a slow sip of whisky. “It’ll get worse you know? Zachariah just assigned Walt and Roy to your work gang.”

Dean muttered a curse. However hard he’d been worked today, tomorrow was going to be intolerable. He flexed his blistered hands, wondering how long it would take them to start bleeding and MacLeod watched with a satisfied expression.

“So what’s it to be, boss?”

Irritated by the sarcasm, Dean propped himself on an elbow and glowered at his cellmate. 

“You keep bragging how you busted out of Yuma; how about you throw me some tips?”

MacLeod shook his head. “I told you before, things were different back then. All I did was pay some guards to look the other way as I took my leave. Do you honestly see that happening now?”

Dean didn’t. Even if Sam could get keys and unlock every door in the prison, there were too many guards around and they’d be shot on sight. He lay back with a grunt and threw an arm across his eyes. He could sense MacLeod’s impatience, had to admit he was feeling much the same way right now. He needed to get out of this place, away from his cellmate’s babble, Zachariah’s spite and this new level of exhaustion. He craved the weight of a pistol in his hand, to be the master of his own destiny once more. He wanted to ride hard, get drunk and have fun with _las señoras de la bordello._ He wanted to kill the cocksucker who’d…

He jerked himself sharply away from the recurring train of thought. It would make him angry and careless. He dropped his arm and squinted at MacLeod, whose expression was unfocussed and blank. When he finally spoke Dean wasn’t sure he was the one being addressed.

“This place is wound up tighter than a drum, but when I was in the hospital…”

He tailed off, a smile pulling at his lips.

“They don’t watch sick men very closely. Most nights I festered in that damned bed and listened to the guard snore. That’s when he wasn’t down the corridor playing cards with his mates.”

Dean could see where MacLeod was going with this, could see the holes in it already. 

“Sick men are in no shape to break out, MacLeod. And they’re all chained to their beds.”

MacLeod’s smile widened. “Moose could get the keys easily enough and listen to this; there’s a passage in the basement which leads down to the river. They use it to take dead prisoners to the boneyard.” 

He sat up straighter, his eyes glinting with excitement.

“A few years ago there was an outbreak of cholera here; it sent the town into meltdown and trade dropped off for months. They dug that tunnel so nobody could see any more bodies and create a fuss. All we need is a boat and we’ll simply float…”

Dean interrupted him, frowning. “Nothing’s simple, and how the hell do you know all this?”

“I work in the library, dumbarse. Recently I’ve been perusing material not strictly meant for my eyes.”

Dean considered. Garth could get them a boat; there were plenty moored at the Yuma trading post and he could get keys copied there. All they needed was Sam to get himself rostered onto the night shift and…

He pulled up short, before he started believing this crap might actually work. There was still a fundamental flaw in his cellmate’s grand plan. 

“You’ve forgotten something, MacLeod. We’re not sick or injured and those doctors see right through fakers.”

“So we get ourselves hurt and lay it on a bit thicker than necessary. All we need is one night in that hospital.”

Dean scowled. “I just spent six weeks getting hurt for no good reason. I’m not doing it again.”

MacLeod snorted disdainfully. “You may be a lot of things, but I never took you for a chicken.”

Dean stood up in a rush, his fists clenched. “If you’re so keen to get back, how about I put you there right now?”

MacLeod nodded agreeably. “You’ll get ten lashes in the yard and those guards don’t hold back. They’ll hospitalise you for sure so congratulations, Winchester; you just made your first leadership decision.”

Dean tried to get his anger under control. That was playing right into MacLeod’s hands. 

“I’m not getting whipped on your account, and I’m not going to the fucking hospital. Go screw yourself.”

MacLeod shrugged. “See how you feel after a few days with your best pals Walt and Roy.”

Dean had heard enough. He shucked off his uniform, lay on his bunk and pulled the blankets over himself.

“I’ve got a hard day tomorrow, MacLeod. You can quit yapping now.”

But MacLeod was like a dog with a bone. “It’s obvious you don’t have any plan worth a shit, so I strongly suggest you think on this one. That hospital’s the only way out and we both know it. I’ll speak to Moose about it tomorrow; he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you.”

Dean didn’t respond. He couldn’t stop MacLeod doing that and Sam might even come up with a better idea. As he drifted off to sleep, MacLeod’s bullshit followed him into his dreams.

“You need to man up and take a bit of pain. Do us all a fucking favour.”


	8. Chapter 8

Fergus MacLeod was restless. He’d felt like this for days and could find no way to make it abate. Nights were the worst; too much time to think, too much whisky to drink and not nearly enough in the cell to distract him. His thoughts inevitably turned inwards and swiftly spiraled out of control. He didn’t like it but then, he didn't much care for any part of his current situation. His fate was currently resting in the hands of his cellmate and MacLeod hated being bound to him in this manner. 

He tried to concentrate on the book he was reading but he'd been on the same page for the better part of an hour, so he gave up on it. He looked across at Winchester with a sneer. He was sound asleep on his bunk, had been since lockup at eight and he wouldn’t stir until the morning bell forced him awake. He’d never been a particularly verbose companion but since getting transferred to the labor gang he’d become downright mute. He didn’t even talk in his sleep any more. 

He'd been on the gang for two weeks, tormented daily by Walt and Roy and that should have lit a fire under his arse, but he’d so far advanced only a partial solution to the busting out problem. He’d finally accepted the hospital was the only realistic escape route, but his method of getting there was tenuous at best in MacLeod’s expert opinion. And it was taking forever to implement. In the meantime the atmosphere in the cell was strained. MacLeod found his bunk mate surly, intransigent and possessed of less brains than a mule. It was driving him insane. 

The nocturnal conversations with Campbell had also ceased, since Winchester was invariably asleep when he came to the cell. Each passing day of inaction took MacLeod closer to trial and he didn’t have time to wait on a man who was always too tired to think. So he’d carried on developing his original idea as the almost inevitable backup plan. 

MacLeod was nothing if not a man of his word. He’d approached Campbell the morning after Winchester handed him the idea and outlined the proposition. Campbell’s initial reaction was one of surprise, swiftly followed by a half-arsed cover up and MacLeod smelled dissent in the ranks. He filed it in his mental dossier of things to ponder when he had less pressing concerns. 

His second attempt, a day later was marginally more successful. Campbell was at least amenable to his idea but seemed out of sorts; brooding and resentful. He acknowledged the plan had potential but point plank refused to see his buddy get hurt. Not for the first time, MacLeod wondered about the nature of their relationship outside the prison. Campbell seemed to genuinely care about Winchester, was fiercely protective of him and that kind of bond was alien to MacLeod. He’d ridden with men who were ferociously loyal, prepared to do anything for him but their devotion was a mix of fear, avarice and envy rather than any real liking for him. Fergus MacLeod didn’t see the point of friends but Campbell’s fidelity closed the door on another notion he’d entertained: leaving Winchester to rot in Yuma while he rode into the sunset with his Moose. 

Campbell had been unaware of the tunnel in the hospital but agreed to check it out. Two days later he came by the cell and this time it was MacLeod who held the whispered meeting. Campbell had not only investigated the tunnel, he'd also located the keys and was in the process of getting copies made. He needed money to buy a boat, which was less complicated than stealing one and MacLeod took what he needed from the stash in his hidey hole and pushed it through the bars. Five days after that Campbell was ready to move. All they needed was access to the hospital, which meant somebody coming up with an idea better than MacLeod’s original, and that’s when things went sideways. Winchester humiliated Roy in front of his work gang and was hauled in front of Zachariah. He subsequently spent two days in the hole. 

MacLeod hoped the experience might spur him into action, since he had nothing to do except sit in the dark and think, and finally the great oaf came up with plan that was worth a shit. It meant procuring a poisonous desert plant called Bird of Paradise and then ingesting its seeds. 

It was risky and MacLeod didn’t like it. The quantity and dosage had to be exactly right and none of them were experts in that field. The best he could hope for was vomiting and the shits; at worst a very painful death. And then they had to get hold of the bloody stuff. Somebody had to ride into the desert, locate the Bird of Paradise bush and prepare the seeds safely. Campbell said he knew a man and alarm bells immediately began ringing in MacLeod's head.

Winchester farted in his sleep and MacLeod glared at him with renewed irritation. He picked up his whisky bottle and warmed it in his hands before taking a generous gulp. He needed to speak with Campbell again. He was expecting the guard to drop by any minute now.

A metallic tapping woke him some time later and he opened his eyes blearily. Campbell was at the door and he got to his feet, noting how the candle had burned down half an inch since he put his book away. Campbell spoke in a low, anxious voice.

“We need to put this plan into action. Roy's figuring out ways to put Dean back in the hole and we can't get to him there.”

His concern was contagious and MacLeod’s stomach lurched. "Where the hell are those bloody seeds? They’re the reason we’re still sitting here with our thumbs up our arses.”

He could sense Campbell's unease before he even opened his mouth. 

"We've got a problem there. My source found the bushes but none of them had any seeds. He thinks it’s the wrong time of year."

“Goddamit!” MacLeod banged his fist into the door jam and Campbell shushed him impatiently.

"Don’t shush me, you little toe rag. It’s the middle of winter; of course they don’t have any sodding seeds. Numb nuts back there should have known that.” 

He scratched at his head in frustration. “Two weeks before I go on trial and we're back to square one. I don’t fucking believe this." 

"We can still make it work." Campbell's voice was quiet, laced with reticence but MacLeod caught the inference immediately. 

"I hope you’re suggesting we revert to the original plan?"

"That depends." Campbell cast an uneasy look at Winchester. "You never explained it all. Tell me what you’ll do to Dean.”

MacLeod considered for a moment then decided the specifics of his plan were too contentious to share. 

“It’s best you don’t know, but you'll thank me for it later.”

“If you hurt him bad I’ll shoot you dead.” There was no threat in Campbell's tone, just stone cold fact and MacLeod chuckled softly. 

“We’ll both get hurt, Moose. And we’ll both be fit enough to escape. Now shit or get off the pot.”

Campbell hesitated and MacLeod braced himself for more resistance. Finally he let out a resigned sigh. 

“Fine. When?”

MacLeod’s pulse quickened. “Tomorrow night.”

Campbell shook his head. “It won’t work. I’m on duty until two in the morning.”

“Tuesday then. How are you getting inside?”

“I joined their stud game and they play every night. They like having me there on account of my permanent losing streak.” Campbell snickered quietly then put his hand through the bars. “Give me Dean’s money and I mean all of it. Once this thing's rolling, there's no coming back."

MacLeod quietly moved his bunk and prised up the rock. He felt inside the hole and his hand brushed the bottle of hooch. It had been sitting there, untouched since Winchester arrived but MacLeod wasn’t going to let it go to waste. He had plans for that bottle. He located the roll of cash, peeled off three hundred for his personal use and passed the remainder to Campbell.

“You know I understand why you bought cash in, but what’s the deal with that bottle of piss?”

Campbell shrugged. “Dean thought he might need it.”

MacLeod snorted. “He hasn’t touched a drop. Not that I blame him.”

“That’s a fucking miracle right there". Campbell threw him an irate look. "You’re enough to drive anyone to drink, MacLeod. Why don’t you stop yapping and mind your own damned business.”

MacLeod waved the insults aside. “What time does your game start?”

“Usually around nine.”

“Be ready to move then. Where’s the boat?”

“It’ll be outside the prison.”

MacLeod stared at him, his patience at breaking point. “If you moor it there it’ll be seen, you bloody imbecile.”

“No it won’t. The guard tower’s on the other side of the prison.”

“And what about the perimeter patrol? Every thirty minutes some guard will stroll past and get an eyeful."

Campbell gave an enigmatic smile and MacLeod would have punched him if he could reach. 

"Leave the details to me, MacLeod. Concentrate on holding up your end and go easy on Dean or you'll regret it." 

His words set another alarm ringing. Not for the first time MacLeod felt like he was the hapless mark in some kind of elaborate grift. 

“Who else is in on this, and don’t give me any more bullshit. I wasn't born yesterday, sonny.”

Campbell’s infuriating smile didn’t slip. “You're imagining things. Go to sleep now and that’s an order."

Then he was gone and MacLeod flopped heavily onto his bunk. Sleep wouldn’t be coming any time soon so he dug into the whisky and tried to put his whirling thoughts in order. He’d suspected for a while there was somebody else tied up in this operation and Campbell just confirmed it. He’d got things in place way too quickly for a man who got one day off a week and lived inside prison walls. And it certainly hadn't been Campbell who’d ridden into the desert in a futile search for Bird of Paradise...

The prospect of another collaborator bothered MacLeod. He wasn’t much of a gambler; he liked to thoroughly weigh the odds before committing to an enterprise and he always held the reins of power. Campbell and Winchester were known quantities to him now. He understood them and intended to play them against each other until one of them snapped. Then he’d drive a wedge into their friendship. 

MacLeod had no intention of being a pawn in their game. He also had no intention of letting them help themselves to his haul of bullion. They hadn’t earned that and they didn’t deserve it. He needed them only to facilitate his escape, help avoid the prison posse and bounty hunters until they were far away, then ditch their incompetent arses. 

A fourth party might just put a spanner in his carefully constructed strategy and he brooded on the problem until his eyelids drooped. The truth of the matter was that until he’d met this man, he couldn’t figure out exactly what he needed to do.

He put his bottle back in its hole and settled down to sleep. Winchester was snoring, oblivious to the change of plan and MacLeod smiled as he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. It wasn't that he necessarily took pleasure from another man’s pain, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. Besides, everything he was doing was vital to a shared cause. 

Winchester would see things differently and MacLeod’s stomach fluttered as he considered the worst case scenario. Winchester was plenty dumb enough to abandon the treasure hunt and use his pistol to settle matters in a more immediate fashion. There weren’t many men MacLeod feared facing in a shootout; he was looking at one of them.

Six years ago they'd nearly killed each other and those events had not been forgotten. While both had been smart enough to keep a life threatening grudge out of a cramped prison cell, outside was a different story. It was only a matter of time before the same trouble flared and MacLeod hoped he was ready for it. He still held the same ace he’d possessed six years ago, but was in no hurry to play it again.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam leaned in the guardhouse doorway, gazing into the shadows of the yard. The sun had set a while back and it was full dark inside the prison now. He was tense, twitchy and his eyes kept drifting towards the high security cell. There was a flicker of candlelight inside and everything seemed calm but that wasn’t going to last. MacLeod had brushed past him earlier and muttered under his breath.

“Stay on your toes and be ready to move.”

Sam glanced at the clock in the guardhouse which showed a quarter after nine. Captain Singer was at his desk writing while four other guards perused the daily reports. The place was quiet, orderly and it only served to worsen his unease. 

The fury he’d experienced when he’d discovered Dean’s real agenda inside Yuma prison had subsided a little but it was still there, simmering just below the surface. It wouldn’t take much for it to explode and he’d been on a knife edge ever since he’d learned, from Fergus fucking MacLeod of all people; that they seriously intended to execute a break out. 

Sam wasn’t angry because he’d travelled halfway across Arizona to help his brother implement a plan he hadn’t been privy to. He’d followed Dean without question plenty of times before and he’d do anything to protect him. Neither was it because the lofty, righteous mission he thought he was aiding was nothing more than Dean playing the Pinkerton Agency for his own ends. His real beef was that he still didn’t know exactly why Dean was doing any of this and his brother hadn’t been exactly cooperative. He’d promised to provide the full story once they were outside prison walls, which only made Sam resentful, frustrated and suspicious. It wasn’t a good place to be on the eve of a breakout. 

“You looking for something to do, Campbell?”

Singer’s voice drifted across the room and Sam straightened up and turned towards him.

“No, sir. Just taking the night air.”

Singer raised a dubious eyebrow and Sam resisted the urge to squirm. It took a strong resolve to keep his expression neutral and hold the captain’s gaze.

“Take a turn round the yard if you need air; otherwise there’s plenty of reports which could use your attention.”

Sam nodded and seized his rifle. Anything was better than reading meaningless paperwork and it meant he could legitimately pass the high security cell.

He was halfway across the yard when he heard the noise he’d been dreading. There was a crash of breaking glass, shockingly loud in the near silence, followed by somebody yelling. It was unmistakably Dean and he didn’t let up. Sam began running towards the cell, his heart hammering and stomach churning. Singer and the others were charging from the guardhouse and by the time he reached the cell he was at the back of a crowd. A guard was getting jostled from all sides as he tried to get a key into the lock while inside, Dean was screaming obscenities. There was an overpowering stench of moonshine and Sam felt glass crunch under his boots. Desperate to see what was happening, he shoved his comrades aside and got a clear look through the door an instant before someone shoved it open. What he saw made him feel queasy. Fergus MacLeod was pinned to his bunk and Dean was on top, pounding him with his fists. 

Sam was shoved aside in turn as the other guards rushed inside. They hauled Dean off MacLeod and he fought like a madman, trying to get back to his adversary. They were having trouble controlling him and Singer grabbed Sam’s rifle, chose his moment and rammed the butt of the weapon into Dean’s kidney. It slowed him just enough for the guards to get a firmer grip.

“Take him outside and don’t let go.” Singer was breathless. He swung round to face Sam. “Fetch the irons and be sharp about it.

Sam raced to the guardhouse, grabbed the manacles from their peg and took them to the yard. They had Dean pinned to the floor now but he was still struggling and cursing at the top of his lungs. Guards on the catwalk were yelling and other prisoners picked up on the excitement, adding whistles and catcalls to the cacophony.

More guards were pouring into the yard; some with lanterns and one snatched the manacles from Sam and proceeded to chain Dean’s wrists. Once the restraints were secure they let go of him and stood back. Dean got up awkwardly, the chains weighing heavy and six guards faced him down. He sneered.

“Takes six to do this, huh? Bunch of fucking pussies.”

He spat on the ground and received a fist in the guts for his trouble. He grunted, fell to his knees and another guard kicked him in the ribs and sent him sprawling. Every instinct was screaming at Sam to go help his brother, but he couldn’t. This was MacLeod’s plan in action, up close and personal and he couldn’t risk everything they’d worked for by drawing suspicion on himself now. 

Singer was shouting and beckoning and Sam hurried back to the high security cell, hoping Dean would stay down and shut the fuck up before he made everything a hundred times worse for himself. 

Fergus MacLeod was lying on his bunk. His face was bone white, covered in bruises and coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Blood was running from his nose, lip and temple and his breath was laboured and ragged. He was grimacing and had a hand clamped to his kidney. Singer had sat on the other bunk and was watching him stoically. He looked up as Sam entered.

“Go and report this to Zachariah. Come back with his instructions and don’t dawdle. I think he’ll want to interview the accountable parties while they’re still conscious.”

MacLeod snorted loudly. “I’m accountable? That cunt got drunk and tried to kill me.”

“Watch your language, MacLeod. Where did that hooch come from?” 

“Damned if I know; but he drank most of it then decided to pick a fight.” 

MacLeod pushed himself up on the bed, winced and flopped back down. Singer’s expression changed from sceptical to uneasy. 

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

MacLeod caught Sam’s eye as he shook his head. “Not until I’ve seen the Governor. He needs to hear the truth.”

Sam took that as his cue to leave. He couldn’t begin to speculate on what went down inside that cell but MacLeod seemed genuinely hurt and Dean to have lost his mind. He slowed his pace as he passed the guards in the yard and saw his brother sprawled face down in the dirt. He wasn’t moving and Sam couldn’t help feeling that right now it might be to his advantage. 

He hurried to Zachariah’s office and the governor’s face darkened as he listened to the news. Then he issued some curt orders. Both prisoners were to be brought before him, separately and he wanted to see Singer as a priority.

Not much had changed when Sam returned a scant five minutes later. Dean was still out cold but the guards had visibly relaxed and some were smoking cigarettes. Singer was still in the cell with MacLeod, who now had a rag pressed to his face. He stood up smartly as Sam relayed Zachariah’s instructions. 

“I’ll go on ahead. Find Warden Turner in that pack outside and the two of you escort MacLeod to the governor. What’s the situation with Winchester?”

“I think he’s unconscious.”

Singer nodded. “Probably for the best.” 

Sam waited until he was out of the cell before approaching MacLeod menacingly.

“What the fuck did you do, MacLeod? I told you what would happen if…”

MacLeod cut him short. “Don’t be so dramatic and keep your sodding voice down. Does _his_ face look like a slab of raw meat right now? Will _he_ be pissing blood for a month?” 

Sam thought about it. All things considered, MacLeod did seem to have come off worse by a considerable margin. 

“Can you walk?”

“I can try.” MacLeod swung his legs over the bunk and tried to push himself up. The effort drained his face of its remaining colour and he winced.

“I lost count how many times that fucker punched me in the kidney.”

Sam helped him up and followed as he limped slowly across the cell, wheezing through clenched teeth every step of the way. MacLeod had no reason to act at this moment and if he was too badly hurt to bust out then it was game over. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in Sam’s opinion. It would give him the freedom to approach Singer, come clean about Dean’s identity and purpose then get them both the hell out of Dodge. 

But MacLeod picked up his pace once he was in the yard and Sam whistled to Rufus Turner, who stood well away from the guards surrounding Dean. He jogged across to join them and MacLeod sniggered as somebody threw a bucket of water over the chained, motionless figure on the ground. Dean regained consciousness sluggishly and Sam gripped MacLeod’s arm and urged him forward.

“Quit loitering, MacLeod. That’s none of your concern.”

In spite of their haste they spent ten minutes outside the office while Zachariah finished up with Singer. MacLeod was ushered in and permitted to sit on a chair while Turner was dispatched to fetch Dean with warnings to keep him under heavy guard. Sam and Singer maintained a discreet distance at the rear of the office while MacLeod was questioned. 

Zachariah drilled him hard, demanding every detail of the fight with intimate clarity but MacLeod’s story was simple and he stuck to it with the tenacity of a man who’d been dreadfully wronged. Dean Winchester returned to their cell with a bad temper and a bottle of hooch which he’d drunk without offering his companion a single drop. He’d become progressively more drunk and angry until a throwaway comment pushed him over the edge. He’d thrown the bottle at his cellmate’s head, managed to miss and then attacked, pounding MacLeod with the strength and stamina of someone who spent eight hours a day breaking rock. MacLeod had been unable to resist and could only endure the assault until the cavalry arrived. 

His story was smooth and plausible, heightened by the blood and bruising on his face and Sam kept reminding himself this version of events was dubious at best. Zachariah questioned MacLeod with the finesse of an attorney at law, but every attempt to trip him up failed. By the time they were done MacLeod was slumped in his chair and visibly wilted. When voices outside indicated the next party had arrived; Zachariah dismissed him directly to the hospital. 

Afterwards Dean was pulled inside by two guards. He was dripping wet and unsteady as he was positioned before the Governor’s desk. The guards stood behind him, rifles ready and the only positive about the situation was that they weren’t Walt or Roy. Dean was not offered the comfort of a chair, though he was swaying alarmingly and Zachariah watched him coldly, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You stink of moonshine, prisoner. Where did you get it?”

Dean stared back at him but remained mute. Zachariah tried again.

“I’ve heard MacLeod’s side of the story so you may as well give yours. I’m a fair man and I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve heard the facts.”

Dean snorted his contempt. “You’ve already judged and I’m not wasting my fucking breath.”

Zachariah clenched his fists, fighting to remain calm. “Anything you say has a bearing on the punishments I determine. I strongly advise you state your case.”

Dean thought about it for a moment then shrugged. “That moonshine belonged to MacLeod. I don’t know where he got it but there’s a regular supply and he drinks every night.”

“And you don’t touch a drop, of course…”

“Damned straight I don’t.” The shackles clanked as Dean pulled up his tunic to reveal the livid scar on his midriff. 

“I took a bullet in the guts a year ago and they’re still messed up. If I drink hard liquor I puke or I shit, sometimes both and it’s not worth the fucking aggravation. What you smell is what MacLeod poured over me while I was asleep.”

The Governor eyed him doubtfully. “Why would he do that?”

“To pick a fight. You do that inside Yuma prison, you take the consequences.”

“You hurt him, Winchester; bad enough that he’s on his way to the hospital. He was in there the best part of two months and bellyached about it the whole time. Why would he intentionally want to go back?”

Dean shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”

“I did ask him.” Zachariah leaned back his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “This is a courtesy I’m affording you, prisoner; nothing more. I’m not especially interested in the fine print of this sorry affair but everything I’ve seen and heard points to you as the agitator.”

“No surprise there.” Dean’s voice was loaded with scorn but Zachariah continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

“I will not tolerate drunkenness or violence inside this prison. Convicts who fight are dealt with severely and I always make an example.”

His eyes flicked to the guards behind Dean and they gripped their weapons more firmly. Sam exchanged an uneasy look with Singer, who looked as unhappy as he felt. What was coming next wasn’t going to be good.

“Tomorrow morning at seven you’ll be flogged in the yard before every inmate. Ten lashes for attacking your cellmate, five more for bringing contraband into a prison.”

Dean stiffened in shock then lurched unsteadily towards the desk.

“You’re a cocksucker, Zachariah. I should have shot you Nogales along with your buddy.”

The guards prevented him from getting any closer to Zachariah, who seemed greatly amused by the display.

“And a further five for insubordination. Keep it up as long as you like, Winchester but you’ll feel the consequences come morning.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, outraged by the narrow minded prejudice and Singer elbowed him in the ribs and muttered quietly. 

“Keep your mouth shut, kid. I’ll handle this.”

He stepped up to the desk and addressed Zachariah in a firm yet diplomatic tone.

“Governor, let’s review the facts properly before taking doling out punishments. Everyone’s in a state of agitation right now; wait for things to calm down a little before you decide.”

Zachariah appraised Dean for a short moment then shook his head. 

“This man is an animal and he’ll be treated like one. Take him to the hole so he can consider his actions in the dark and cold. Tomorrow he’ll pay for them.”

Sam took a silent vow. Next time he saw Fergus MacLeod he was going to deliver on his promise and shoot the fucker dead.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean was roused by someone shaking his shoulder and repeating a word over and over. It took a while to realise it was his name being spoken, longer to identify the voice as belonging to Captain Singer. He opened his eyes with an effort and recoiled when he found Singer’s face only a few inches from his own. 

“Are you with us, Winchester?”

Dean grunted and lifted his head. There were lamps on the floor nearby and the light hurt his eyes and made them stream. He glimpsed three shadowy figures a few feet away before pounding pain in his skull forced him to delay trying to move any more. He’d seen enough to recognise some unpleasantly familiar surroundings, though. Weight and pressure on his wrists informed him he was also wearing shackles.

“Do you know where you are?”

Singer’s voice was way too loud and Dean winced. “Back in the Hole?” 

“Correct.”

The Dark Cell, colloquially known as The Hole comprised a strap iron cage erected in the centre of a rock cavern. There were no windows, there was no comfort. It was cold, dark, capable of turning a prisoner’s mind inside out and Dean had no desire to spend any more time in here. He propped himself awkwardly on one elbow and stared at Singer.

“Why the fuck am I back here?”

Singer patted his shoulder. “Best you remember for yourself.”

Dean tried. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the stream of vitriol dripping from Fergus MacLeod’s lips, the words deliberately chosen to push him to the edge. With a jolt of pleasure he remembered attacking his cellmate, relishing the crunch of bone and sensation of every punch which hit its target. The rest, however was a jumble of incoherent flashbacks which he wasn’t even sure was real. 

He flinched as Singer’s voice boomed out. “Campbell, fetch those keys over here.”

Footsteps echoed in the chamber and then Sam was looming above him, looking mutinous. Dean knew from the flare of his nostrils, the set of his jaw that his brother was furious and he was scowling as he leaned down to unlock the shackles.

“He should be in the hospital, Captain. Not this fucking place.”

Singer nodded. “I’m not arguing with that, son.”

Sam removed the restraints, threw them to the floor and stood back a few paces, arms folded defiantly. Dean watched him, rubbing the raw skin round his wrists, hoping his brother wasn’t about to lose his shit and blow their cover. His mind was still working overtime, trying to figure out what happened to land him back in isolation and slowly the memories returned. 

He remembered getting hauled off MacLeod, dragged into the yard and beaten, which was mostly his own fault. He should have stayed down but he was so damned angry he’d gotten up three times before being knocked unconscious. He remembered waking up wet, standing before the Governor, trying not to puke or pass out and finally, with a shock, he remembered the worst event of all. 

He sat up in a rush, regretted it as pain exploded all over his body but pushed on through, glaring at Singer like it was all his fault. 

“I’m not getting whipped on account of that fucker MacLeod.”

The captain smiled but there was no humour in it.

“Memory’s come back, huh?”

Dean got to his feet, which took longer than expected and left him breathless and wheezing. He pressed a hand to his battered ribs and tried to keep his voice steady.

“He started that fight and I’m not taking the fall for it.”

“Calm down, Winchester. I don’t agree with Zachariah’s decision and as his deputy I’ll do my best to reverse it. I don’t agree with corporal punishment either and I'll go over his head if I need to. In the meantime, Fitz here’s gonna check you over. He ain’t a proper doctor but…”

There was a derisive snort from the shadows. “I’m better qualified than you might think.”

There was petulance in Garth’s tone. He stepped into the light and gave Dean a cursory inspection. “Leave him in those clothes and he’ll catch fever, I guarantee it.”

Singer nodded curtly and gestured to the remaining guard. “Rufus, go fetch a dry uniform. Winchester, strip down and let Fitz look at you properly.”

Dean was happy to oblige. He pulled off the clammy, stinking uniform and tossed it to Rufus. Sam held up a lantern while Garth probed the goose egg on the back of his head. 

“How you feeling? Any double vision?”

The wound was tender and Dean grimaced. “How the hell would I know? It’s too dark to see jack shit.”

“A lump like that usually comes with complimentary concussion. Let me see…”

He came up close, looking intently into Dean’s eyes and Dean raised an eyebrow. 

“I swear to god, man, if you try and kiss me…”

“Stow it, Winchester.” Singer’s voice was stern. “Let him work.”

Garth moved in a slow circle, examining the cuts and bruises and by the time he was done, Dean was shivering. Rufus Turner handed him a clean uniform and he got dressed while Garth was giving his report to Singer. 

“He’s got concussion and some cracked ribs. They might be broken and if they are they’ll puncture his lungs. I can’t be sure of anything in here so it’s best the doc checks him over in the hospital.”

Dean suppressed a smile. He had plenty of experience getting hurt and knew full well the difference between bruises and broken bones. No harm in playing it up, though. Singer was watching him appraisingly so he leaned against the bars and slid to the floor with a heavy sigh. He feigned a coughing fit for good measure then closed his eyes while a muted conversation was conducted above him. He didn’t bother listening in. The emotions and exertions of the past few hours had been exhausting and despite the situation, the awful contemplation of what might happen at seven o’clock, he felt like he could actually sleep for a few hours. Singer’s voice roused him just as he was going under.

“I’m going to see Zachariah. I’m recommending we send you to the hospital and cancel the punishment.”

Dean nodded wearily and the rescue party took its leave. They took all but one of the lanterns and the Hole became decidedly gloomy. Sam hung back to collect the shackles and he didn’t say a word, which said plenty about his mood. Despite his better judgement, Dean felt he owed his brother some kind of explanation.

“Sam, I’m sorry if…”

Sam rounded on him, scowling. “You know what, Dean; screw you. It was your idea to buddy up with MacLeod and I hope to God it was fucking worth it.”

Dean’s instinctive reaction was belligerence, though he knew deep down Sam’s anger was justified. 

“It’ll be worth it when we’re out of here and that bastard gives me...”

"Gives you what?" Sam barked out an incredulous laugh. “You think MacLeod’s gonna roll over and spill his guts; Zachariah’s gonna cancel the whipping cause Singer asks him nice? Hell might as well freeze over as well.”

His voice had risen from furious stage whisper to full on roar but now he reined himself in with an effort, speaking quietly and deliberately.

“You’re about to take a flogging for nothing. Let me speak to Singer, show him the telegrams from Chicago and he’ll stop this thing dead.”

Dean shook his head stubbornly. “No way I’m letting MacLeod think he’s got me beat. I’ll wring the information out of that fucker one way or another.”

Sam stared at him, utterly baffled. “You’re one naive son of a bitch, Dean; but have it your way. Don’t expect me to stand out there and watch though.”

He threw the shackles over his shoulder, picked up the lantern and locked the door to the cage. He stalked towards the outer door and was almost there when Dean called to him.

“What time is it?”

Sam hesitated then pulled out his pocket watch.

“Just after midnight.” 

He turned and offered a tight smile which Dean interpreted as some kind of truce. “Hang in there, man. One way or another I’ll get this straightened out.”

Dean tensed. “You keep your mouth shut, Sam; you hear? Don’t you pussy out on me now.”

Sam shook his head sadly. “Never took you for a masochist, Dean.”

Then he was gone. The door slammed shut and the cell plunged into absolute darkness. Dean heard bolts ram into place, the faint crunch of Sam’s departing feet and then he was alone in complete silence. From his previous spell in the Hole he knew that however much he needed it, sleep would not come easily. The place was too cold and uncomfortable and the impending punishment, only seven short hours away had his guts twisting in apprehension. Then there was the seething resentment to contend with; not only the unjustness of his situation but also MacLeod’s part in it. The fact Dean had witlessly played right into his hands aggravated him beyond belief. 

With nothing else to occupy his senses, he couldn’t stop his mind looping round events which brought him here. He’d known MacLeod was out to cause trouble just after lockup. Ordinarily he could ignore his cellmate’s incessant yapping and sleep through it, exhausted by the day’s work. Tonight MacLeod had chosen subjects designed to keep him awake. He’d focussed on the past and reminisced fondly about the three months they’d ridden together. He expressed satisfaction in leading the infamous Crowley-MacLeod gang and having the notorious Dean Winchester do his bidding like a good little doggie. 

Dean let it wash over him, too tired to get even a little bit riled. MacLeod broke off the monologue while he pulled the undrinkable moonshine from its hole, which was time enough for Dean to begin drifting, but then he started up again. Now he’d changed tack completely, focussing on the one thing that was sure to get his cellmate’s undivided attention. 

The shocking story, told with flair and embellishment was one Dean was intimately acquainted with, one he’d spent thirty years trying to reconcile with little success. It recalled the destruction of his family, the violent, futile death of his mother and his father’s withdrawal into addiction and inevitable slide into crime. At least he’d had the dedication to keep his sons close and Dean, particularly had learned the lessons of the outlaw well.

Six years ago MacLeod claimed to know who set the fire which destroyed Dean’s home and changed his life forever. That identity was the one thing he craved, the sole reason he was in Yuma prison and suffering all this shit. He wanted revenge, pure and simple and once that was done MacLeod would be getting similar retribution. Six years ago he’d given Dean a false name and watched him charge off to gun down an innocent man. Dean tried to kill him for the deception but MacLeod’s gang closed ranks and he’d narrowly escaped with his life. Next time would be different.

MacLeod’s words stirred up all the emotions Dean worked so hard to suppress, which was a daily battle. MacLeod was showing part of his hand here, laying some major cards on the table while protecting his ace. Dean knew he’d never reveal the name until his life depended on it, maybe not even then but it was too late to turn back now. He fought to remain calm and tried not to let MacLeod push his buttons as easily as he’d done in the past. It wasn’t easy.

Unperturbed by his silence, MacLeod started talking about the bastard in question, how he’d bragged about the arson and murder he’d committed. The picture he painted was painfully vivid and Dean pulled his blankets over his head. They blotted out MacLeod’s voice but not the memories of being four and a half years old, confused, terrified and heartbroken. 

He did his best to control the emotional blaze MacLeod's words were fanning, reminding himself he was a United States Marshal and should seek recourse within the law. He was about to get up and call for the guards when he felt something warm dripping onto his pants. He threw the blankets aside, certain MacLeod was pissing on him but found something worse. MacLeod was beside his bunk, dousing him in hooch and wearing an insane grin. 

“I knew this would come in handy. Thanks for helping me out, Winchester.”

Finally pushed beyond reason, Dean surged to his feet. MacLeod hurled the bottle at the window and it smashed as Dean cannoned into him, knocking him onto his bunk and pounding him with every ounce of strength in his body. MacLeod hadn’t put up much of a fight, which wasn’t surprising but the guards arrived before he could inflict the kind of damage he really wanted. Before he could…

He jerked himself away from the frustrating memory and let the dark silence of the Hole calm him. Just thinking about those events had set his heart racing and blood was thundering in his ears. He stood up and turned carefully, felt for the cage bars and pressed his face to the cold metal, trying to get himself under control. 

Time had little meaning here so when the door clanked open and light spilled into the cell, he couldn’t tell if he’d been alone for minutes or hours. He squinted at the group of men approaching him and instantly recognised Walt’s uneven gait. Roy was inevitably in attendance and they were both flanking a bulker figure. When Zachariah came into view, Dean’s worst fears were confirmed; there would be no reprieve tonight.

“Expecting someone else, Winchester?”

Zachariah seemed amused. He stopped a few feet short of the cage and Dean gripped the bars, praying he'd come closer so he could reach out and throttle him. Even Zachariah had enough sense not to do that, though.

“Captain Singer made a convincing case against punishing you. He said you were unwell so I decided to come see for myself.”

He sounded positively jovial and Roy sniggered. Zachariah beckoned to Walt. “Bring that lantern closer, Warden; let’s get a look at this profoundly injured prisoner.”

Walt raised the lantern and Dean blinked in the harsh light while Zachariah studied him. It made him twitchy, he felt like an exhibit in a freak show and got the distinct impression he was being toyed with. 

“He looks fine to me.” Roy’s voice echoed round the chamber. “You want me to check him over properly?”

Dean scowled. “Come in here and you’ll leave on a stretcher.”

Roy just shrugged and pulled a baton from his belt. Dean moved into the middle of the cage, preparing for another fight and the superior expression on Zachariah’s face goaded him into some rash words.

“How did a spineless, sadistic bastard like you ever buy his way into the army, huh? How many men died on your watch, Zachariah? How many would still be walking if you hadn’t been in command?”

His words hit Zachariah like bullets and his expression turned ugly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you a good flogging won’t cure, and you’ll stay on the digging team until the day you hang.”

Dean sneered. “Your threats don’t scare me, Zachariah.”

“It’s no threat, prisoner. Additionally you’ll spend your nights in the Hole and if you lip me like that again, I’ll see you’re chained to the floor.”

Walt spoke up eagerly. “You want me to fetch the irons?”

Dean clenched his fists. "You wanna try putting them on me, Walt?"

Zachariah considered for a moment then shook his head. “Let him be for tonight. We don’t want him missing tomorrow’s entertainment on account of real injury, do we?”

Roy laughed and Dean spat on the floor. There was more laughter as they left the cell and for the second time he was alone in darkness.

The failure of Singer’s appeal was disappointing but no great surprise. Right now Dean didn’t give a damn either way. He was so mad that the prospect of getting whipped in front of the whole prison was more a challenge than a humiliation. He could take it. He could take anything those bastards threw his way and then some. 

Ultimately this was his doorway to freedom and afterwards he’d have the time and resources to go after Zachariah and his cronies properly. His revenge bucket list was getting longer by the day and he revelled in it.

“Bring it on, you fuckers,” he murmured as his gun hand moved reflexively.


	11. Chapter 11

From his vantage point on the catwalk, Sam watched the door to the Hole intently. At one o’clock in the morning there really wasn’t much else to do except look and think. He’d often wondered why guards were posted here after lockdown; the earlier ruckus should have given him the answer definitively. Rufus Turner was on the other side of the catwalk; his whole demeanour reflecting utter boredom and a third guard was stationed outside the Hole. Nobody had been inside for a while now. 

Following their earlier visit Singer instructed Sam, Garth and Rufus to resume their duties then hurried away to challenge Zachariah. So it was that Sam was in exactly the right place to watch the governor pay his own visit later on. Although he’d come out quickly, Sam’s stomach was twisting up in knots. Anything might have happened in that short time and given Dean’s runaway mouth, it very likely had.

Walt and Roy inevitably comprised his security crew and afterwards they ambled into the guardhouse, grinning broadly. Singer stomped out a minute later, clearly thinking along the same lines as Sam because he stopped outside the Hole and ordered the man there to open up. Sam scooted round the catwalk and called to him when he came out again. Singer answered his query as to the state of affairs inside with a curt assurance and instructions to mind his own damned business from now on. The response helped settle Sam’s nerves, for the moment at least. 

Nothing he’d witnessed gave him reason to think the punishment was cancelled and Sam’s emotions were pulling him in all directions. He was furious with MacLeod for instigating the fight and scared shitless both prisoners would be too badly hurt to walk. He was concerned about the mental state of his brother, who wasn’t thinking or acting rationally, agitated about the impending escape effort and not knowing anything for sure was driving him crazy. He checked his pocket watch constantly, willing the hands to crawl round to two o’clock when his shift finished. God only knew what he’d do with himself then, though a stiff drink or three was probably on the cards.

Singer was alone in the guardhouse when he finally got off duty. He was writing at his desk, clutching the pen so tightly his knuckles were white and he glanced up as Sam came in.

“You clocked off now?”

“Yes sir, until seven o’clock.”

Sam’s stomach twisted as he named the dreadful time and Singer watched him gloomily. Finally he sighed and pushed his paper aside. He reached into the desk, pulled out a bottle of whisky and two glasses then nodded to the door.

“Close that and pull up a chair.”

Sam obliged while Singer poured two generous measures. He slid a glass across and took a sip from his own.

“You’ve probably gathered Zachariah ain’t backing down on making an example of Winchester. What are your feelings on that?”

Sam forced himself to consider before answering; to keep his voice measured and neutral.

“I don’t believe Winchester started that fight and I don’t think he should be punished for it. It seems like Zachariah has personal issues which are getting in the way of doing things fairly.”

Singer nodded. “I concur. His actions strike me as erratic, though Winchester sure doesn’t do himself any favours with that attitude.”

His words drew out the memory of a heated conversation back in Purgatory, when Sam questioned the wisdom of Dean going undercover in Yuma without notifying its most senior official. Dean had been cagey and obstinate, insisting there were reasons why Zachariah should be kept in the dark. He wouldn’t elaborate and only now was Sam realising there was a bigger picture than the one he’d been shown. He tried the whisky, which tasted expensive and swallowed appreciatively. 

“MacLeod’s smart in a crisis, I’ll give him that, but he’s a conniving son of a bitch who can make any lie seem real.”

“I’ve got MacLeod’s number…”

Singer seemed preoccupied. He picked up his pen and tapped out a slow tattoo on the desk top. “He started that fight on purpose but I’m damned if I know why.”

Sam’s heart began thumping and he tried to divert the captain away from that line of thinking.

“Maybe he was looking to get hurt; postpone his trial a little longer?”

“Then he took a hiding for nothing.” Singer smiled sourly. “The doc says he’s sore and bruised but nothing life threatening. He’ll be off his feet for a day or so, then back to the grind.”

MacLeod, at least, would be fit to travel but that was low on the list of Sam’s concerns right now. He eyed the captain cautiously

“Uh, when the Governor went into the…”

Singer cut him short. “They didn’t lay a finger on Winchester, though he lipped them enough to earn more punishment. That boy sure enjoys making life tough.”

Sam swallowed down his irritation. Why couldn’t Dean ever keep his damned mouth shut? 

“What kind of punishment?”

Singer frowned. “Once he’s over the flogging he’ll spend every night in the Hole, chained to the floor if he pisses anyone else off.”

A wave of anger engulfed Sam and he clenched his fists, trying to get it under control.

“That isn’t fair. He’s been punished enough already.”

“I dare say.” Singer gestured to the paper on his desk. “This telegram’s going to the Territorial Prison authorities and recommends Zachariah gets investigated immediately. You’ll keep this to yourself, Warden and that’s an order.”

Sam was flattered such potentially flammable information was being shared with him and was itching to reciprocate, to tell Singer who he really was and why he was here. His gut told him the captain would take his side, help Dean and stand with them while they battled the fallout. The reality was that he couldn’t do a damned thing without his brother’s consent. He fell silent, searching for the best way to phrase his most pressing question.

“Cat got your tongue, Campbell?”

Sam elected to just spit it out. “Uh, who’ll be doing it tomorrow? That’s to say, who’ll be holding the whip?”

“It’s my decision and we can be grateful for that”. 

Sam agreed whole heartedly. Given the opportunity, Zachariah would assign Walt or Roy and Dean might not survive a flogging by their hands. Singer stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“I’ve been mulling it over these past few hours. How would you feel about running the show?”

If Sam hadn’t been sitting he would very likely have fallen down. His legs went to jelly and his stomach roiled queasily. This sounded like some kind of hellish trial, devised to both test and torment him for all eternity. Even if Dean forgave him, he’d never be able to forgive himself and he shook his head emphatically.

“No fucking chance.”

“I could order you, Warden Campbell.”

“Then you’d get my resignation, effective immediately.”

The captain cocked his head, which made him look like some kind of exotic, weather beaten owl.

“Not long ago you were giving Winchester the kind of hard time Walt and Roy could be proud of. Here’s a chance to do it legitimately.”

Sam glared at him, right on the edge of meltdown.

“You said yourself he’s got a crazy mouth and sometimes it pushes men beyond reason. But he isn’t guilty and I’ll cut off my hand before I raise a whip against him.”

He took a gulp of liquor, breathing hard through his nose. Singer leaned back in his chair, a smile playing across his lips.

“Dramatic at the end there but delivered with conviction. Warden Turner can handle it; he’ll make it look good without flaying the skin off Winchester’s back. All the same, it won’t be easy...”

He turned to the battered wooden cupboard standing behind his desk and rummaged in the lowest drawer. Sam stared at his back, trying to fathom his reasoning.

“If you had Turner in mind, why ask me?”

Singer straightened and pushed the drawer shut with his boot. He was holding something Sam couldn’t see and he cradled the object in his lap.

“You strike me as a compassionate fellow, Campbell, aside from those unfortunate incidents. I had to be sure you didn’t hold any kind of grudge.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

Singer smiled and placed a bottle on his desk. Its size and shape was unfamiliar and Sam squinted to read the flowery script on its label. He finally identified it as wine and glanced at the captain quizzically. 

Singer shrugged. “He says he can’t drink hard liquor. You think he’ll be able to keep that down?”

Sam wasn’t certain he’d heard right. “This is for Winchester?”

Singer nodded. “I don’t believe he’s guilty either, and he shouldn’t be going through this… unassisted, shall we say. If you’re happy to put in some overtime, I want you to deliver this.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was headed for the Hole. His pockets were full of leftovers from the kitchen and the wine was stashed in the waistband of his pants. The guard outside complained bitterly because he was half an hour overdue and Sam told him to shove it up his ass. He pulled up a stool, sat down and tried to act natural. With the two o’clock shift change, there were new eyes up on the catwalk and he was acutely aware of being watched. 

Over a second glass of whisky, he’d received instructions from Singer. Like Sam, the captain was pulling an all-nighter and at five o’clock he’d brief every man on duty inside the guardhouse. It would allow Sam to access the Hole and conduct his business unobserved. Five o’clock was two and a half hours away, though and time had slowed to a trickle. 

The prison was silent and Sam strained his ears for any sounds inside the cell. He didn’t hear a thing. He wondered if Dean had managed to catch some sleep or whether he was sitting in the dark and cold, reflecting on recent events and where they were leading him. He shifted position, settled more comfortably and tried not to fall asleep.

He snapped awake at the sound of Singer’s booming voice, instructing all personnel to muster in the guardhouse. Half a dozen men drifted inside from various parts of the prison and Sam waited a minute before lighting a candle and slipping into the cell. 

Dean was hunched in a corner of the cage, arms wrapped round his knees and his head bowed. Sam approached quietly and squatted next to him.

“How are you doing?”

Dean jumped visibly and jerked his head up. “What the fuck, Sam? You trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Sorry man, I thought you were awake.”

Dean scowled. “I am now. Is it time?”

His tone was bold, defiant and Sam took comfort in that, though it was mostly for his benefit. 

“It’s five o'clock.”

Dean blew out a long breath but didn’t say anything else. The beating he’d taken earlier was showing now; his face was bruised and his left eye was closing up. He used the cage bars to drag himself to his feet, cursing at the pain and Sam watched him, frowning. 

“There’s still time to stop this. Singer’s on our side and I’ve got those telegrams...”

“They won’t do a damned thing except make Zachariah desperate.” Dean’s voice turned hard and uncompromising. “Once he knows he’s been fucking with a federal marshal, who’s also working for the Pinks, what do you think he’ll do? Roll over and set me loose or find a way to shut me up permanently?”

Sam turned that over for a moment, disappointed he’d never made the connection for himself. He’d always assumed they both had a get out of jail card; that revealing their true identities would unlock the gates to Yuma with no strings attached. Only now was he realising that wasn’t the case at all. Dean’s eyes glittered in the candle light. 

“Zachariah can’t be trusted, Sam. It’s why we didn’t let him know I was coming. He would have turned it to his advantage and fucked up my chances with MacLeod.” 

“Because Fergus MacLeod’s so damned trustworthy, isn’t he?" Sam folded his arms, scowling. “You know this was his plan all along, don’t you?”

Dean shrugged. “Mine didn’t work out so…” 

“Damn it, Dean, you could have just gone with the original idea and acted sick. If you take that whipping you’re giving him exactly what he wants. He _planned_ it this way!”

“Say what?” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You telling me you were in on it?”

“Not all of it.” Sam pushed the wine through the bars. “Drink that and I’ll tell you.”

Dean uncorked the bottle and took a dubious sniff. Realising what it was, he took a long draught and Sam wished to God he’d never started this conversation. Only when Dean wiped a sleeve across his mouth and cleared his throat pointedly did he begin fumbling his way towards an explanation.

“When Garth couldn’t find the Bird of Paradise seeds we needed a backup plan. MacLeod already had one so we decided to go with it.”

“You decided…” Dean’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “You all made a plan behind my back?”

“Damn it, Dean we made it right under your nose. You were too exhausted to think straight and we had to keep things rolling.”

“So it’s my fault now?”

The accusation in his tone was palpable and Sam flinched. 

“MacLeod said he’d get you both inside the hospital. He never told me how he’d do it.”

“And you never thought to ask?” Dean’s eyes were flashing dangerously and Sam took a slow, shaky breath. 

“I told him if he hurt you bad I’d kill him. It’s a promise I’m going to keep.”

Some of the tension left Dean’s body and he took another gulp of wine. “That’s my job, Sammy. Yours is to keep him onside until we’re out of this shit hole. You reckon you can do that?”

Sam nodded glumly. He pulled the packets of food from his pockets and handed them to his brother. 

“That’s from me. The wine’s from Singer.”

Dean contemplated the bottle for a moment. “He’s a good man.”

Sam nodded. “He did everything in his power to stop this. He still could if you’d just let...”

“Enough already, Sam.” Dean sighed wearily. “This is my decision and you’re gonna have to live with it. Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

Sam clenched his jaw, biting back words which would only come out wrong. He placed the candle on the floor and stared at his brother. 

“You’re one stubborn son of a bitch, but have it your way. I’ll be back later to collect this stuff.”

Dean raised the bottle in salute.

“Here’s to Fergus MacLeod getting his.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean drained the last drops of wine from the bottle and placed it beside him. He wished there was more but the alcohol had done its job, leaving him light headed and immeasurably more confident than he’d been an hour ago. No matter what he’d told Zachariah or Sam, even himself for that matter, he was dreading the punishment. He’d come close a few times but never actually experienced getting flogged; he consequently had no idea what to expect or the pain levels involved. With the benefit of booze though, he could easily take twenty lashes like a man and show no weakness. The image of Zachariah leaving the spectacle disappointed brought a smile to his lips. Ultimately, getting one over on that slimy bastard was all that counted.

And if it served to get him out of this shithole then so much the better. Dean knew the escape plan was risky, that he might wind up with a bullet through his head but anticipating the look on Fergus MacLeod’s face when he played his next card made even that a risk worth taking. His smile widened as he pictured the moment.

The sound of bolts being drawn back was deafening in the near silence of the hole and he pulled the empty bottle behind him and out of sight. Sam’s candle had burned out some time ago and as the door squeaked open, bright light speared his eyes. He threw an arm across them, tensing at the sound of quiet footsteps approaching. 

“How you doing?” 

Although it was Sam’s voice addressing him, Dean couldn’t relax. As his brother squatted beside him, Dean squinted at him blearily.

“Is it time?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s six thirty. I brought you breakfast.”

He pushed a beaker of water and hunk of stale bread through the bars and Dean stared at it in disgust. 

“Thanks but no thanks.”

In truth he wasn’t hungry; he was beginning to feel queasy and told himself it was just the booze unsettling his guts. The portion of the yard visible through the half open door was empty, which meant the prisoners were at their morning meal and Dean could imagine them talking and laughing as they anticipated the unscheduled entertainment. Sam was watching him glumly.

“How was the wine?”

“Huh?” Dean only half heard the question and he frowned as he tried to process it. “Easier to keep down than whisky, I guess. I’ll have to remember that trick.”

He handed over the bottle and Sam tucked it into his pants. It was his turn to frown. 

“Rufus Turner’s handling the whip. Apparently he knows how to put on a show, make it look good without…” Sam’s voice tailed off. “You know.”

Dean forced out a laugh but even to his ears it sounded hollow. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Sam’s frown deepened. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy”. But Dean’s throat was dry as the desert and he reached for the beaker of water and gulped it down. He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder and shook it off roughly. 

“I’m not scared, man. This is only to bust us out of Yuma and every one of those fuckers is gonna pay for it later. You got that?”

Sam nodded and blinked rapidly. His eyes were moist and Dean smirked. 

“Save them tears, honey. I ain’t worth it.”

Sam offered him the ghost of a smile.

“They’ll be coming soon. Don’t give them any reason to make this worse, okay?”

Dean couldn’t guarantee that so he kept his mouth shut. Eventually Sam shrugged and stood up.

“I’ll see you later. Stay strong, Dean.”

Then he was gone and the cell was dark again. Dean got up and groped his way across the cage until he was at the point he estimated was closest to the door. He listened intently until he fancied he caught the shuffle of 120 prisoners coming into the yard. Imagination or not, it made his stomach churn and he fought down a wave of nausea. He pressed his forehead against the cold bars, waiting…

Eventually real feet approached and the door banged open to admit Walt, Roy and a third guard, clearly a buddy since he was wearing the same expectant grin as his cohorts. Roy was carrying a set of manacles and Dean gripped the bars as anger stirred in the pit of his stomach. It felt a damned sight better than sickness and he spat at Walt’s boots, smiling when he jumped back, cursing.

“Step away from the bars, Winchester and don’t give us any trouble. We’re coming in.”

Roy sounded eager and Dean was ready to give him the worst trouble he’d ever see until he remembered Sam’s parting caution. There was no sense taking another beating right before something infinitely worse so he moved into the middle of the cage while Walt unlocked the door. He stayed put as they swarmed in, gripped his wrists and secured the manacles. He received a couple of punches anyway, reckoned he’d gotten off lightly all things considered and then they were dragging him towards the yard.

The morning light was subdued; low, smoke-coloured clouds filled the sky but to Dean’s dark-accustomed eyes everything was too bright. He shook his head to clear his vision; the booze had made it fuzzy and the yard began to spin a little. He welcomed the sensation of detachment and tried to hang onto it as he was marched forward. 

The yard was full of men, sitting in the dirt and watching intently while right ahead of him was Zachariah, standing beside the water pump. He was flanked by Captain Singer and Rufus Turner who was nervously turning a broad leather whip in his hands. Dean would have preferred to make a dignified approach but he was being pulled along with excessive force and he stumbled and nearly lost his footing several times. 

By the time he got to Zachariah the wine had reached his legs. He was turned to face the inmates and stood there swaying, feeling the eyes of 120 men boring into him. All would be wondering how he’d handle himself in this situation and most would have laid bets on the outcome. Dean could acutely feel the excitement and anticipation but also sensed an undercurrent of mutinous outrage. He could hear the mutter of exchanged opinions, a few voices raised in dissent and the atmosphere was best described as tense. This was as close as anybody inside Yuma got to entertainment, but some of the audience didn’t seem happy to be there.

Dean stared into the crowd and offered a theatrical yawn when Zachariah started talking. The subsequent laughter drowned out the beginning of the governor’s speech, which proved tedious and patronising. He glossed over the circumstances surrounding the punishment, focussing instead on the necessity for a firm hand when dealing with unruly inmates. There was open disagreement from some prisoners now and their volume levels were rising. Dean blotted out Zachariah’s bullshit by keeping a bored but insolent expression on his face. He let his gaze linger on the toughest men in the prison, letting them know he wasn’t bothered by any of this and inviting them to learn from his example.

It seemed like the whole damned place had turned out to watch. All the ancillary personnel were present, from lay workers to office staff and every guard had been rostered on duty. The dozen or so on the catwalk had rifles trained into the yard and Dean saw Garth outside the guardhouse, his expression a combination of guilt and dismay. The only faces missing belonged to Macleod and Sam. True to his word, his brother was absent from the proceedings and Dean wondered what story he’d used to excuse himself. He sincerely hoped Sam was using the time constructively; fine tuning the details of their escape plan or scaring the living shit out of Fergus MacLeod. Either was fine by him.

Rough hands gripping his arms notified him Zachariah’s lecture was done and the real show was about to begin. Roy unlocked the manacles, ordered him to remove his tunic and Dean hesitated. His hands were trembling and he’d fumble the buttons if he took it off in the conventional manner. Reluctant to look foolish in front of this audience, he tried for a more impressive method; ripping the garment open and tossing it to the floor with contempt. That earned him a couple of cheers. 

Walt and Roy turned him to face the wall and Dean’s eyes were drawn to the pair of iron rings set into the stonework. They could have been hitching rings, except they were six feet above the ground and four feet apart. He’d spent many an idle hour contemplating their purpose and now he fervently wished he hadn’t discovered it in such a public fashion. The guards tied ropes to his wrists, threaded them through the rings and pulled them tight, spreading his arms and flattening his chest against the rock. They were tied off quickly, securing him in place and Walt and Roy stood back as Zachariah’s voice boomed round the yard.

“Twenty lashes for this prisoner. Let punishment commence.”

The yard went silent and Dean heard the crunch of Rufus Turner’s boots as he took up his position. He was tied too tightly, too closely for much movement and though he strained his neck round as far as possible, he couldn’t get a clear look at what was happening behind him. 

Rain splashed on his shoulders and thunder rumbled in the near distance as somebody yelled “one” and the first lash landed across his back. He heard the whistle and crack of leather on flesh a moment before sensation struck and nothing could have prepared him for the brittle, stinging agony it brought. He gasped in shock and clamped his jaws together to keep from making any further sound. After a second shout of “two” he was no better prepared. By the seventh stroke his skin felt hot, raw and tight enough to split. The eighth stoke completed the job and he felt blood trickling down his back. Dean’s teeth were so tightly clenched his jaw ached and more blood ran down his chin from where he’d bitten his lip or his tongue, maybe both. 

The rain gained in intensity as the flogging progressed and Dean was losing his grip on reason. He couldn’t tell if the wetness on his back was water or blood, couldn’t hear the count over the pounding in his ears and there was a darkening mist before his eyes. He didn’t know if the whip was still working or whether the searing agony across his shoulders and back just made it seem that way. A detached part of his mind with a bad sense of humour told him this was Rufus Turner going easy and he nearly laughed, right before he swooned. He lost his balance and then his entire weight was dragging down on his arms as he struggled to keep upright. Only bone-headed pride kept his legs from buckling again, since there was no way on earth he’d let the whole prison watch him faint like a lady at a hanging.

Caught up in the battle for dignity, time stretched out infinitely and Dean was close to losing the fight when a voice jerked him from the near stupor. 

“It’s over, son. Reckon you can make it to the hospital.”

It took him a while to realise it was Captain Singer speaking, by which time the pressure on his wrists was easing as the ropes were cut. Dean jammed his palms and forehead against the wall, still determined not to collapse and Singer’s voice came again, closer this time. 

“You need some help?”

Dean shook his head and watched droplets of rainwater splash onto the dirt. 

“Like hell I do.” 

His voice came out ragged and harsh. He gathered every last bit of his strength and pushed away from the wall, willing his legs not to give out. They held out enough for him to turn slowly, wipe blood from his chin and face the yard. There were too many expressions to read and Dean didn’t have the time or energy to study them. He’d proven himself to every last man; hadn’t screamed or begged for mercy, hadn’t passed out now he was walking away with his head held high. 

He raked water out of his hair and cast a contemptuous look at Zachariah, who was watching coldly. Adrenaline began pumping through Dean’s body, lending him some much needed vitality and he spat as hard as he could in the Governor’s direction. The bloody globule landed squarely on his polished boot and there was immediate laughter, hoots and jeers from the inmates. Zachariah’s jaw clenched but he didn’t respond, just threw Dean a glare which promised hell on earth before turning on his heel and stalking through the nearest gate. Walt and Roy were right behind him.

Prisoners climbed to their feet as Dean passed, in open defiance of guards who yelled at them to sit down and stay put. Singer and Turner were trailing him but despite their proximity, vulgar truths and opinions on the current regime were freely offered. Towards the back of the yard men began to clap and shout and by the time Dean reached the gate to the hospital, the mood was downright dangerous. Guards on the catwalk added gunfire to the quarrel which only served to inflame the situation and the noise was deafening. It was only surpassed by crashing thunder as the mother of all storms approached. As the strap-iron gate closed and locked behind him, shutting out some of the racket, Dean could hear rain hissing on the packed dirt.

Adrenalin kept him going for a few more paces and then his legs buckled. Singer and Turner caught him before he hit the deck and carried him onwards to the hospital. 

Dean blacked out before they got there.


	13. Chapter 13

Fergus MacLeod reclined in bed and strained his ears until they popped. Outside rain lashed at the windows but inside the hospital, a pin dropping would have been deafening. It was easy to believe he was the only living soul in the place, which wasn’t far from the truth considering everyone was watching the flogging and the isolation chamber next door contained a corpse. It would be so bloody easy to stroll out of Yuma at this opportune moment, if it weren’t for the cuff securing his ankle to the bed, which was bolted to the floor.

The chain was barely long enough to access to the piss pot stashed below, let alone reach a man in another bed. It was a neat solution to violence between patients, minimised the need for guards and MacLeod hated the damned thing with a passion. He was bored and there was nothing inside the ward to occupy his attention. The walls were whitewashed stone, three barred windows offered pleasant views of the river but from his prone position, all he could see was glowering sky. A fierce storm was approaching and lightening flashed periodically. It was perfect escape weather, like the devil had sent it personally and MacLeod’s pulse quickened when the first clap of thunder shook the building.

There were six beds in the ward and five were currently standing empty. That suited him just fine since he didn’t need a bunch yammering, whining prisoners distracting him at such an important juncture. He flexed his back experimentally and winced at the pain, which wasn’t letting up. Winchester’s attack contained a ferocity he wasn’t expecting but the essence of his deception meant he couldn’t fight back. He could only lay there and yell for help, fending off the worst while he waited for the guards. They took their sweet time arriving, by which time his cellmate had beaten him bloody. His kidney took a hiding and he was pissing blood again, like he’d claimed but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d pretended. He wasn’t sure the cantankerous old bastard Singer had bought the fabrication, but it didn’t matter now. He was where he needed to be and he’d legitimately be in here another day. All he had to do was count down the hours…

MacLeod was itching to know what was happening in the yard, his curiosity inflamed by the information he’d wheedled from the scrawny gofer named Fitz. The kid looked at him like he’d crawled out from under a rock but couldn’t help spilling his guts regardless. Winchester had been sentenced to twenty lashes and MacLeod’s sphincter clenched when he considered the consequences of that. The flogging wouldn’t prevent his former cellmate joining the escape, he was way too fucking stubborn for that, and there would be swift repercussions outside prison walls. Winchester would be looking for revenge and MacLeod needed to be ready for it. 

He mulled over the predicament. With foresight and planning he could neutralise Dean Winchester, no matter how dangerous he considered himself. A gunfight would be the obvious outcome but disagreements didn’t necessarily have to end like that. There were many ways to take down an enemy without resorting to bullets and MacLeod favoured a knife to the throat as an effective means of dispatch. All he needed was a single opportunity and every man needed his beauty sleep…

The whipping would be underway now. That was always the keystone to his plan since goading Winchester to violence would bring that exact punishment down on him. What he hadn’t reckoned on was Zachariah’s severity. Ordinarily a prisoner received ten lashes and though he could only wonder how Winchester earned himself the rest, he could take a pretty fair guess. 

With nothing better to do, he ruminated on events which triggered the fight and congratulated himself again on his near perfect execution. Things might not have gone exactly to plan, but Fergus MacLeod was nothing if not adaptable. Winchester had shown uncharacteristic restraint when confronted with reminders of his family’s destruction and for a while MacLeod wasn’t sure he’d get the result he needed. A quick dousing in horse piss had kicked things along spectacularly and MacLeod smiled at the memory. 

The rattle and grind of an opening door caught his attention and he pushed himself upright, pasting an expression of dignified suffering onto his face. There were voices in the corridor outside, a dragging sound he couldn’t identify and when a group of men passed his door he got a glimpse of Singer and the beefy black guard called Turner. Neither spared him a glance as they carried the wet and shirtless form of Dean Winchester into the treatment room opposite. He was unconscious, his head hanging down and his laboured breathing was audible at a distance. His back resembled a slab of bloody meat and MacLeod winced, trying to convince himself he wasn’t responsible for that. Fitz brought up the rear, closed the door with a bang and silence returned. MacLeod’s ears were burning now. 

Five minutes later the prison doctor hurried into the same room and MacLeod waited, drumming out a staccato pattern with his fingers. They’d bring Winchester into the ward eventually but whatever they were doing was taking forever. Outside the slate grey clouds weren’t moving and the wind was picking up, howling round the walls of the hospital building. MacLeod found it soothing and coupled with the tapping of rain on glass; it lulled him into a light doze. 

He started awake to the sound of quiet voices in the ward. Fitz and the doctor were laying Winchester belly down on a corner bed, the one furthest from his own and MacLeod could see bandages on his back. Blood was beginning to spot through them. Fitz frowned as Turner chained Winchester’s leg to the bed and the warden shrugged apologetically.

“I don’t like it either, son. Procedure’s a bitch.”

The doctor pulled a sheet over his patient before addressing Fitz in a voice which carried.

“Don’t leave him alone. If you need to piss then you call somebody first and make sure he takes that laudanum. Three drops every hour, you got it?”

Fitz nodded and pulled up a chair. MacLeod roundly resented the fact a two bit outlaw like Winchester was getting so much attention, not to mention morphine and was about to voice his displeasure when Captain Singer arrived. He strode directly to his bed and looked down at him coldly. 

“I don’t want any shit from you. We can’t keep the two of you separate but if I hear so much as a whisper of trouble you’ll be right back in your cell.”

MacLeod screwed up his face in indignation. “I didn’t just get flogged for disobedience but it’s clear to me you value some convicts more highly than others.”

The Captain smiled tightly. “No flies on you.”

MacLeod snorted. “So much for institutional egalitarianism.”

“Stow your fancy words, MacLeod.” 

He beckoned to the doctor, who followed him from the room and Turner trailed after them. MacLeod studied Fitz as he hunched over the limp form on the bed. He seemed nervous, checking his pocket watch and fussing with bottles of medicine constantly. The continual clinking of glass quickly wore MacLeod’s patience to the bone.

Medical assistants never lasted long in Yuma and he’d witnessed several come and go in this very ward. Not one of them offered a fraction of the care or attention Fitz was giving Winchester. It was like he had some kind of vested interest and that led MacLeod to ponder, yet again, the fourth man on the escape detail and whether he might be looking right at him. 

Winchester coughed and MacLeod chuckled when Fitz almost fell off his chair. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and kiss him better?”

Fitz shot him a look of utter contempt from beneath his scraggy fringe.

“Shut your hole, MacLeod. This is all your fault.”

“My fault? Really?” MacLeod eyed him keenly. “Did your mother never teach you there’s two sides to every story?”

“She taught me just fine, which is why I’m tending him and no one gives a shit about you.”

The barb didn’t sting, since nobody had ever given a shit about Fergus MacLeod. “You keep telling yourself that, sonny; while you play nursemaid to a worthless convict.”

Fitz reddened, seemed about to retort then bit his lip with an effort. MacLeod gave him a moment before turning the screw tighter. 

“How much do they pay nursemaids these days? I hear it’s less than your average knocking shop.”

The kid glared at him. “I don’t care what you call me, MacLeod. I came here to help sick men and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

The tone of his voice said something different and MacLeod knew why.

“But this man wasn’t sick an hour ago, was he? That tends to fuck with a superior moral standpoint like yours.”

Fitz’s eyes widened in surprise and MacLeod snorted disdainfully. The kid was like an open book so he really shouldn’t be astonished when somebody read out loud.

“It’s not fair. It’s not why I got into doctoring.”

“Then it’s lucky you’re not a doctor.”

Once again Fitz looked set to retort and again he bit back whatever he was about to say. 

“One more word out of you, MacLeod and I’ll call Singer.”

MacLeod let him stew. He couldn’t risk getting sent to his cell just to score points over a kid. He’d got little sleep last night on account of the pain and nobody had been tripping over themselves to dole out laudanum on his account. Tonight wouldn’t be any better so he decided to rest while he could. The sky outside was black now, rain hammering at the windows though the storm centre had moved off a few miles. The persistent wind was a clear indicator it would be back and MacLeod closed his eyes; let the weather take him someplace better. 

He slept soundly and dreamlessly. When he awoke night had fallen and the ward was in shadows, illuminated by a single lamp. Rain still beat at the windows and the thunder was back, booming across the Colorado River. He dozed for a while, snug and warm before casting a discreet look at the corner bed. Winchester was face down and motionless but his bandages had been changed at some point. The fresh ones bore no traces of blood. A guard was sitting beside him and MacLeod was irked by the lack of progress. If they carried on drugging him like this, they’d be hauling his dead weight all the way to the river and his back was already hurting like a son of a bitch. 

He asked for the time and learned it was nearly 8.40. The guard asked if he wanted supper and MacLeod accepted the offer eagerly; he’d slept through lunch and his stomach growled loudly at the thought of food. The man headed to the kitchen, leaving him to contemplate his last supper inside Yuma prison. They were in the final stages now and just as he was wondering where Campbell had got to, the lanky guard stepped through the door and went straight to the corner bed. He ignored MacLeod totally, but he was getting used to that. Campbell shook Winchester and seemed surprised when he didn’t react

“They’ve been dosing him with laudanum all day. He’s out for the count, mate.”

Campbell didn’t look over. “We switched it a few hours ago. He should be coming round.”

MacLeod smiled at his unwitting use of the plural, which reinforced all his suspicions. Campbell shook Winchester again and was rewarded by a slurred expletive. He smiled triumphantly though MacLeod didn’t share his joy. Winchester out cold was a lot safer all round in his opinion. 

“The guard went to fetch food. He’ll be back soon.”

Campbell shrugged. “He’s off duty after that. I’ve been posted as night guard.”

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. “How did you manage that?”

“Singer wanted somebody he could trust.”

MacLeod barked out a laugh. “Then he sure as shit picked the wrong man.”

Campbell’s expression darkened and his eyes flashed dangerously but he didn’t respond. MacLeod tried again to engage him. 

“No card game tonight?”

Campbell glanced at the door. “They start at nine but we can’t move until they’re all here.”

MacLeod digested that for a moment. “Is Fitz coming back?”

Campbell shook his shaggy head. “He’s off duty.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure; he was looking at Winchester like a love struck school girl. Where is he now?”

“How the hell would I know? Drunk in a saloon, most likely.” Campbell scowled. “Just shut the fuck up, MacLeod. I’m tired of your yap.”

He squatted beside Winchester and tapped his cheek lightly until he got another reaction. Winchester opened his eyes and blinked a few times before closing them again. Campbell kept up a running monologue, stopped while the guard delivered MacLeod’s supper then picked it up again. MacLeod was ravenous and he wolfed down the stew and bread while observing the scene before him curiously. 

Campbell’s attentiveness was so much like Fitz’s that he wondered what kind of relationship these men shared. It clearly centred round Winchester but for the life of him, MacLeod couldn’t fathom how a fourth division outlaw instilled such devotion and loyalty in others. Campbell poured water, coaxed the patient into taking a few sips and MacLeod was getting impatient. It had to be nine o’clock by now and the storm had blown right back overhead. It was now or never and he coughed pointedly. 

“Tick tock, ladies.”

Campbell ignored him but at least went up the corridor to check on the card game. He reported there were only three men playing tonight, the others deterred by the storm. They were well into their first bottle of whisky and he finally realised this was the perfect time to subdue them, while thunder obliterated any shouting and gunfire. 

Winchester shook off the fog of laudanum and his face tightened with pain as he struggled to sit up, slapping away Campbell’s helping hand with a curse. When Campbell unlocked his ankle cuff he got slowly to his feet. It was a teeth grindingly laborious process but once up he seemed surprisingly steady. He hitched up his drawers, rubbed his eyes and glanced round the room, his gaze touching on MacLeod briefly. He muttered to Campbell who handed over his pistol then retrieved a rifle he’d propped by the bed. MacLeod’s pulse quickened as he realised he was alone and restrained in a room with two armed men, neither of whom bore him any love. His fear proved unfounded though, since both acted as if he wasn’t there. They exchanged a look then left the ward, Winchester stiff and limping but moving at speed in spite of it. 

They were gone a long time, long enough for MacLeod to think they’d left without him and the thought made him queasy. This was his final chance to escape the noose but there was absolutely no reason Winchester and Campbell needed him except personal avarice. Perhaps they’d decided he was too much of a liability and he began regretting the lengths to which he’d pushed his cellmate. Fergus MacLeod didn’t generally miscalculate; he was too good at reading and manipulating people, but right now he felt like he’d made the biggest miscalculation of his life… 

But they turned up eventually, dragging an unconscious guard between them and making no effort to be quiet. Neither spoke as they threw him on Winchester’s bed and stripped him of his uniform. Winchester pulled it on awkwardly while Campbell bound his hands, gagged him and chained his ankle. After that they pulled sheets and blankets over the body, making it seem like a prisoner was laying there. Winchester buckled on the prison issue gun belt and finally gave MacLeod his full attention. 

“It’s time to go.”

MacLeod rattled his ankle chain. “You’d better unlock this then.”

Winchester’s grin resembled that of a prairie fox. “It’s time for us to go, MacLeod; you’re staying right here. Think of it as payback for that flogging if it makes you feel better.”

MacLeod’s heart began hammering but he kept his voice steady with an effort of will.

“You’re forgetting one thing. I know where you’re going and I’ll be sharing it freely with Zachariah. Might even buy myself some goodwill in the process…”

Winchester sniggered and glanced at Campbell. “Stupid fucker thinks we told him the real plan.”

MacLeod smarted at the thought of being hoodwinked by these idiots but he wasn’t about to back down. “I’ll shout for help. You’ll be dead before you get a hundred yards.”

He wouldn’t be heard over the storm, any guard in the vicinity would be unconscious or dead and Winchester was well aware of all that. But he got the threat out with conviction and his cellmate’s eyes narrowed. 

“Open your mouth and I’ll put a bullet through your teeth.”

To prove it was no idle threat, his hand dropped to his hip and hung there menacingly. Campbell grabbed his arm, muttered urgently in his ear and Winchester pushed him away.

“I don’t give a shit about that anymore. This fucker’s going to hang and his last thought’ll be how he came this close to cheating death. We’ll see you in hell, asshole.”

He turned on his heel and stomped out of the ward. Campbell hung back for a moment, frowning at MacLeod before slowly taking his leave. 

MacLeod could feel the hangman’s noose tightening round his neck and he nearly choked.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam pulled up in the corridor outside the ward, trapped in the middle of an impossible situation and momentarily unsure which way to turn. As ever though, loyalty to his family won out. Dean was ahead of him, moving fast and Sam called for him to stop. Dean didn’t though, just motioned for him to hurry up and Sam muttered a frustrated curse. His brother was one pig headed son of a bitch and sometimes, increasingly these days, seemed incapable of listening to reason. He caught sight of MacLeod sitting bolt upright in bed, wearing an expression which bordered on desperation and Sam’s stomach twisted.

Leaving him there didn’t feel right on any level. Undoubtedly MacLeod was a dangerous, conniving bastard who’d been instrumental in Dean getting flogged, but he’d also come up with this plan and got them to this place and time unchallenged. He called Dean again, louder this time and was ignored for his trouble as his brother disappeared into the guard’s station. The stab of irritation Sam felt propelled him into decisive action. He crossed the ward in three strides and unlocked MacLeod’s cuff. MacLeod eyed him dubiously as he rubbed at his ankle. 

“Not that I’m complaining, but your self-righteous buddy out there might not…”

Sam cut him short. “Don’t be provoking him or you’ll wind up right back in this bed, you hear?”

MacLeod considered for a moment then nodded.

“Whatever you say, Moose.”

Sam hurried up to the guard’s station and MacLeod trailed behind, his bare feet slapping the stone floor. Dean was standing by the barred window in the warm, stuffy room and Sam’s nose wrinkled at the smell of sweat and whisky which hung pungently in the air. Two unconscious men were sprawled on the floor and he grabbed the larger of them by the collar, ready to haul him outside. Dean spoke without turning. 

“What are you doing?”

Sam stared at his brother’s back, needled by his superior tone of voice. “Taking him to the ward. We need his stuff.”

Dean’s shoulder twitched. “No we don’t. Why would you…?”

In the doorway, MacLeod couldn’t resist the opportunity. “I think I’m entitled to a pair of boots, don’t you, boss?”

Dean spun round and the prison revolver appeared in his hand so fast it was like magic. It was pointed squarely at MacLeod’s chest and Sam moved smartly into the line of fire. Dean scowled.

“I told you he’s not coming. What part of that is giving you trouble?”

The simmering irritation flared into full-on anger and Sam clenched his fists, trying to keep a grip on it. 

“Who the fuck put you in charge, Dean? MacLeod hatched this plan and I’m not leaving him to hang on your say so. He deserves a fair shot at freedom.”

MacLeod chuckled softly. “Bravo, Campbell.”

Sam spun round and fixed him with a stony glare. “I told you to keep it zipped, MacLeod. Shut the fuck up for once in your life and help me with this.”

He jerked his head at the man on the floor and grabbed his left leg. MacLeod took the other and together they hauled him from the room. Sam glanced at Dean and met a perfect poker face. His brother holstered the pistol, turned his back and resumed his vigil at the window. 

“Fuck you, Dean.” Sam said it loud enough to carry and Dean’s shoulder twitched again, but he didn’t turn. 

In the ward, they stripped the guard to his underwear and Sam trussed him up while MacLeod struggled into his uniform. It was a snug fit and he bemoaned the lack of quality tailoring the whole time. Sam stuffed his prison pyjamas into the piss pot, which seemed a fitting end for them, then stuck the guard’s pistol into his belt. MacLeod watched the show balefully. 

“I make it two pistols and a rifle to you, diddly squat to me. I wouldn’t call that especially fair…”

Sam snorted. “I’m not giving you a gun so you can shoot me in the back. You think I was born yesterday?” 

“Do you really want an answer to that?” MacLeod jerked his chin up petulantly. “Have you forgotten that Winchester just pulled on me? He’ll try to kill me the first chance he gets and I’m entitled to defend myself.”

“You’re not entitled to anything, MacLeod. Quit bellyaching.”

MacLeod changed tack and his expression turned shrewd. “Once we’re out of this shithole we need to look out for each other, mate. That desert is full of Navajo just itching to spill white men’s blood.” 

His brow furrowed but his eyes were glinting with something like glee. “I’ve seen how they kill the likes of us, Campbell and it’s not pretty or quick. You’re putting me in a position of extreme vulnerability.”

Sam wasn’t buying it. “If you’re scared then go back to bed and do us all a favour.”

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should find out how well Boss Man down the corridor knows Indian Territory before you go trotting after him like a dog. The way I see it, you boys are going to need a guide.”

“And you reckon it might be you?”

“Do you have someone better to hand?”

Sam hesitated. He’d read enough stories about renegade Navajo to know MacLeod was on the level. They favoured the desolate, wild places; places he’d spent his whole life actively avoiding and they killed white men for sport as much as revenge. But so long as their plan was underpinned by the Colorado River, MacLeod’s argument didn’t hold much water. 

“They’ll have a hard time ambushing us in a boat, MacLeod. Get moving.”

“Don’t bet on it, Fido.”

They walked in silence to the guard’s station. Dean was in a chair by the fire, hunched forward with a rifle propped across his lap. He looked pale, bone weary and was obviously hurting. As Sam approached he heard the click of the weapon being primed and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

“This isn’t the time. Let’s get moving, huh?”

Dean shrugged him off. “It’s not over, Sam.”

“Whatever you say. We’ll talk about it later.”

Dean winced as he pushed himself to his feet and Sam lit the lantern that stood on the card table. He gestured at the remaining guard. 

“He can’t stay there. MacLeod, you do the honours.”

MacLeod groused as he dragged the unconscious man to the isolation room and Sam locked him inside with the ripening corpse. He groused louder when Dean thrust the lantern at him and ordered him to take point. He only shut up when they both threatened to shoot him in the ass. 

He led them progressively downward into the guts of the hospital building. While MacLeod was sure footed and seemed confident of the path, Sam was considerably less so. He followed closely, keeping his boots inside the lantern’s pool of light and Dean bought up the rear, stumbling and cursing. Every time Sam turned to voice his concern however, he was met with a glare and a command to keep his damned eyes forward. They encountered five locked doors in the course of the journey and Sam used the keys on his guard’s chain to open and relock them. They moved quietly and cautiously, alert for guards and danger but encountered neither. After ten minutes they arrived at the strap iron door which opened into the river tunnel and Sam reached into his pants for some different keys. 

Only Zachariah and Singer held keys to this door and authority to access the tunnel. All other personnel needed written permission to use it. Singer’s keys were secured inside his office desk and Sam had no trouble picking the lock and taking clay imprints. Complex prison door mechanisms were beyond his expertise so he’d overpaid a Yuma locksmith to make copies and paid him some more to keep his mouth shut about it. He’d recently had cause to break into Singer’s desk a second time and wondered how long it would take the Captain to find the letter he’d left inside. Wondered what his course of action would be after he’d read it… 

The replica key fitted the lock but wouldn’t turn. Sam twisted with all his strength, heard some of the tumblers turn but not enough to get the job done. This wasn’t exactly news to him, the locksmith had warned there might be a few snags, but the delay was agitating MacLeod and Sam felt tension coming off him in waves. He understood their concern. If they were caught on this side of the gate, all because a damned key didn’t turn, they’d all know the meaning of living hell on earth.

“Didn’t you test it, you bloody great oaf?”

MacLeod’s voice was right in his ear and Sam bristled at the accusing tone. He drove his elbow sharply into MacLeod’s chest and took satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath. 

“And risk getting seen? What do you think, asshole?”

As he reached into his boot for the metal file he’d brought along, Dean lunged at MacLeod, slammed him against the door and snarled into his face. 

“Talk to him like that again and your fucking teeth’ll get adjusted.”

MacLeod retaliated by ramming the lantern into his chest, knocking him backwards and off balance.

“You and whose fucking army, Winchester?”

Sam grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away from his brother. 

“Me and him, MacLeod? _We’re_ a fucking army. You got that or would you rather go to war?”

MacLeod bit his lip, weighing the odds before shrugging and letting out an exaggerated sigh.

“Time’s a ticking, Moose. Best get to it, eh?”

Sam carefully filed the teeth of the key, blew metallic dust in MacLeod’s direction and Dean sniggered when he sneezed and coughed. It took several attempts before the door yielded but it locked smoothly once they’d passed through. They trudged fifty feet along a humid, claustrophobic stone passage before reaching the final door. This one was solid iron, pitted and corroded by the moist air but proved an easier affair to manage. The second key was a perfect copy and it swung inwards on squealing hinges. A cold blast of rain swept into the tunnel and Sam stepped back while he consulted his pocket watch. It read two minutes to twelve and there was a patrol scheduled at midnight. He pulled Dean aside, out of MacLeod’s earshot and spoke quietly.

“The boat’s a quarter mile downstream. There’s a perimeter patrol anytime now and the next one’s in fifteen minutes. We have to move fast or…” 

Dean interrupted him, frowning.

“I won’t hold you up, man. There’s nothing wrong with my fucking legs.”

The stubborn set of his jaw informed Sam he’d keep his word, even if it half killed him. Dean squinted into the rain, hammering down with force enough to drive rivulets of sand into the tunnel. 

“You think they’ll even see us in that?”

Sam looked at him quizzically. “You want to take chances at this stage?”

Dean shrugged but didn’t reply and they waited five minutes before easing through the door and pressing themselves against the wall outside. Sam re-locked the door, blew out the lantern then stepped clear of the wall to cast a quick glance upwards, searching for guards on the parapet thirty feet above. Satisfied there was nobody there, he led the party towards the riverbank, favouring the cover offered by overhanging trees and foliage. They stumbled and slid through spiny brush, tripping on roots and rocks and were soaked to the bone in minutes. 

By the time the prison buildings were distant silhouettes, lit occasionally by forks of lightening, Sam was shaking with cold and fatigue. His legs were aching from the effort of wading through mud and sand and his back was stiff and painful from hunching over. He glanced back to find MacLeod a couple of feet behind, panting but thankfully silent. At the back, Dean was matching their pace step for step and Sam blew out a relieved breath, thankful his brother was still moving under his own steam. 

They’d arranged for Garth to bring the boat up as soon as it got dark and Sam guessed it was moored somewhere round here. He scanned the river bank when lightning did him the favour of illuminating it but couldn’t see any sign of it. Finally he resorted to lighting the lantern and was rewarded almost instantly by a whistle and flash of light fifteen feet downstream. He headed straight for it. 

The boat was rocking beneath a stand of willow which overhung the river and Garth was squatting in the bow. He was wearing a floppy sou’wester and grinning like a Cheshire cat. 

“Sam? Dean? I’m so glad you made it…” He caught sight of MacLeod and the smile faltered. “That takes the shine off it.”

“And here’s the nursemaid, just as I suspected.” MacLeod jerked his thumb at the distant prison. “Best run along now, sonny; your supper’s getting cold.”

Garth scowled and flipped him the bird. “Go to hell, grandad.”

The boat was long, broad and high sided. It sat low in the water at the stern and there was a tarpaulin stretched across its gunwales. Garth stood up easily, apparently at home on the unstable vessel and pointed at the tarp.

“Dean; you can go shelter below. There’s plenty of blankets in there.”

His eyes lingered on MacLeod then flicked across to Sam. “

“She’s already low in the water with the supplies and all. With four of us on board…”

Dean interrupted him. “There’s only gonna be three on board. We busted this fucker out, which is more than he deserves, but now he’s on his own.”

MacLeod stuck his hands in his pockets and threw him an insolent smile.

“What about that name, Winchester? I was under the impression you still needed it.”

Dean snorted his contempt. “I don’t need anything that comes out of your mouth and you’d best get moving before they send the posse.”

Sam frowned. “We’ve come this far, Dean, we might as well…”

“Anything he tells us will be a lie, Sam. Haven’t you worked that out yet?”

MacLeod didn’t seem overly bothered by the prospect of being abandoned in the middle of a storm with no weapons and little hope of evading recapture. He was watching Dean keenly. 

“You know what, Winchester? I’m going to give it to you anyway. Consider it a gift from a dreadfully wronged adversary.”

“Fuck you, Macleod.” Dean clambered inelegantly into the boat and MacLeod sniggered at the spectacle.

“Why don’t you sit down, before you go arse over tit and listen to me...”

A swell of current pushed the stern of the boat into the river and Dean lost his footing. He wobbled then sat down hard on the gunwale, narrowly missing Garth. Sam felt queasy just looking at the wildly rocking craft but MacLeod laughed out loud.

“Your footwork’s as agile as your brain, Winchester. Don’t you care about the man who torched mummy anymore?”

Sam whipped round to face him, feeling like he’d been sucker punched to the gut.

“What did you just say?”

MacLeod’s surprised expression immediately turned shrewd. Sam tried to wipe the shock off his face but it was too late.

“What’s on _your_ mind, Sammy? How about sharing with Uncle Fergus, eh?”

From the boat came the unmistakeable sound of hammer being cocked. 

“Shut your hole, MacLeod.”

Dean was back on his feet, his rifle pointed squarely at MacLeod and his balance was rock steady.

“One more word about my family and you’re a dead man.”

MacLeod ignored him, his eyes still on Sam.

“But now it seems like there’s another invested party in this little fellowship and I’m curious to know what Campbell thinks before I die.”

Sam stared at him, stunned and bewildered by this turn of events. Had his brother really possessed information about their mother’s killer this whole time and not bothered telling him? Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger. 

“Keep talking MacLeod and you’ll get the short answer.”

MacLeod shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to lose. Leave me here and I’m a dead man anyway.”

Dean jerked the rifle towards the boat. “Get on board, Sam; we’re leaving.”

“No.” Sam squared his shoulders. “I’m not walking away from this. If he knows who killed… Who murdered… I want that name even if you don’t.”

“I already told you, any name he gives will be a goddamned lie.”

“I’ll take that chance, Dean. Either we all get on that boat or we part company here.”

They glared at each other, neither prepared to back down and the stalemate seemed to stretch out indefinitely. Eventually MacLeod broke the silence. 

“Much as I love a good stand-off, this one beats the Mexicans so how about I speed things up? Winchester, the arsehole who killed your mother is the same arsehole who shot me in the back and rode off with my bullion.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and his eyes shifted across to Sam. 

“Which means… we’re _all_ looking for the same arsehole.”

Dean slowly lowered the rifle and Sam felt the balance of power tip perceptibly. While that didn’t bode well for himself or Dean, he had to admire MacLeod’s timing and style.

As aces in the hole went, it was a doozy.


End file.
